II'*. 


i 


€*• 


STORM 


BY 

WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE 


HARPER  6*  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

MCMXIV 


COPYRIGHT.    1914.    BY    HARPER   A    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED     MARCH.     1914 


t 


TO 
W.    F.    S, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAP. 

I.  ABOUT  DEDOS 

II.  FAIR  NAMES 15 

III.  I  START  UP-STREET  AND  Go  MUCH  FARTHER   ....  31 

IV.  A  VISITATION  OF  FLESH 47 

V.  I  "CARRY  THINGS  WITH  A  HIGH  HAND" 56 

VI.  A  VESSEL  OF  MUTES 71 

VII.  A  NIGHT  LANDING 88 

VIII.  I  SEE  A  STRANGE  SIGHT  ON  A  PORCH 102 

IX.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  PENNY H3 

X.  EIGHT  BELLS  OF  A  QUIET  NIGHT 125 

XI.  I  RECEIVE  DISMAL  TIDINGS 139 

XII.  I  HEAR  No  GOOD  OF  MYSELF 148 

XIII.  YOUTH 162 

XIV.  THE  FESTIVAL  OF  MENE  JESUS 177 

XV.  A  WARM  DAY  AND  A  COLD  NIGHT 187 

XVI.  AGNES  CARRIES  IN  HER  OWN  WOOD 201 

XVII.  A   NIGHT-RUNNING       216 

XVIII.  I  ENTER  A  CERTAIN  HOUSE  WITHOUT  INVITATION     .     .  227 

XIX.  TEN  O'CLOCK 239 

XX.  DEDOS  COUNTS  SEVEN 254 

XXI.  TIM 267 

XXII.  A  PASSAGE  OF  THE  FRONT  STREET 279 

XXIII.  "A  PAIR  WUTH  TH'  FISTIES" 292 

XXIV.  A  MATTER  OF  GEOGRAPHY 2" 

XXV.  I  WAKE  IN  THE  NIGHT 31° 

XXVI.  I  WATCH  THE  SHIPS  Go  BY  AND  HEAR  A  STORY  .    .  317 


STORM 


ABOUT  DEDOS 

THE  little  house  where  I  was  born,  and  in  which 
I  spent  the  earlier  years  of  my  life,  stands 
about  a  hundred  feet  back  from  the  beach  and  a 
little  more  than  a  mile  down-shore  from  Old 
Harbor.  What  we  always  knew  as  the  Creek  runs 
in  there,  with  plenty  of  water,  even  at  low  tide,  to 
float  my  father's  dories;  and  the  flawless  yellow  face 
of  a  dune  used  to  stand  up  behind  the  house,  shel 
tering  us  from  the  "northerlies"  that  pick  the  scud 
from  the  Atlantic,  a  mile  back  across  the  Neck, 
and  spatter  it  in  the  bay  at  our  front  door.  My 
father  and  mother  still  live  in  the  house,  but  the 
dune  has  shifted  to  the  westward  and  it  is  colder 
there  on  a  winter  night. 

My  father  and  mother  came  from  the  Azores — 
the  Western  Islands  we  call  them — so  they  had 
a  recollection  of  green  country,  but  we  children 
knew  nothing  but  the  water  and  the  sand  and  the 
gray,  crouching  woods  that  run  like  a  thread  of 

marrow  through  the  internal  passages  of  the  Cape. 

1 


;  STORM 

Strangely  ;enough,  my  most  vivid  remembrance  of 
the  water  is  not  from  any  of  its  wilder  moods,  but 
pictured  with  the  tide  out  at  evening,  reflecting  the 
face  of  the  western  sky,  flat,  garish-colored,  silent, 
with  a  spur  of  mute  fire  reaching  out  at  us  along 
the  surface  of  the  Creek. 

The  dunes  were  the  magic  land,  full  of  shifting 
shadows,  and  deceptive,  where  a  little  covey  of 
beach-plums  made  themselves  out  a  far-away  and 
impenetrable  forest,  especially  when  the  mist  came 
inland,  and  a  footprint  in  the  sand  across  a  hollow 
appeared  a  vast  convulsion  of  nature  at  the  other 
end  of  a  day's  journey.  And  one  felt  the  dunes 
always  moving,  rising  up  out  of  the  sea,  marching 
silently  across  the  Neck,  and  advancing  upon  the 
little  house.  I  can  remember  the  spring  when  the 
sand  ate  up  a  pear-tree  my  father  brought  from 
the  Islands. 

From  the  little  house  one  may  look  straight 
along  the  State  Road  to  the  westward  into  Old 
Harbor,  a  mile  up-shore.  In  the  early  autumn  the 
sun  goes  down  into  the  very  core  of  the  town. 
When  there  is  just  enough  mist  in  the  air,  the  red 
disk,  touching  the  tower  of  the  Congregational 
Church,  seems  to  set  off  a  conspired  train,  and 
immediately  all  the  huddled  roofs  and  trees  and 
masts  and  wharves  of  Old  Harbor  are  caught  up 
and  overwhelmed  in  a  tremendous  crimson  de 
struction. 

It  was  on  an  evening  of  my  tenth  year  that  I 
saw  my  mother's  cousin  coming  along  the  State 
Road,  growing  and  blackening  against  the  flare 
behind  like  a  ponderous  survivor,  fleeing  leisurely. 


STORM 

I  knew  he  was  coming  to  talk  with  my  father,  who 
was  painting  a  dory  thwart  in  the  fish-shed,  so  there 
I  went  and  stowed  myself  away  in  a  discreet  corner. 

Dedos  was  a  man  of  enormous  girth.  When  he 
came  into  the  shed  and  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  old 
sail-cloth  he  brought  to  my  mind  the  picture  of  a 
pyramid  in  a  book  they  gave  me  at  Old  Harbor 
school — but  very  solemn  and  grotesque  and  snap 
ping  his  fingers.  He  was  forever  snapping  those 
huge  fingers  of  his,  and  it  was  only  in  after  years 
that  I  learned  that  "Dedos,"  our  Portuguese  for 
"fingers,"  was  not  his  real  name,  for  one  never 
heard  any  other  in  Old  Harbor.  Every  one.  knew 
Dedos  as  a  comical  fellow,  and,  though  he  seldom 
spoke,  and  then  with  a  hesitating  gravity,  one 
always  roared  at  him. 

Now  he  sat  for  some  time  in  silence,  pyramid- 
wise,  watching  my  father's  brush.  When  he  spoke, 
it  was  with  a  grotesque  embarrassment. 

"I — I've  took  the  Angle"  he  exploded,  with 
something  desperate  in  his  wide  face. 

"Debil,"  my  father  muttered,  shaking  his  head. 
"Dat  one  debil  boat.  You  one  beeg  fool  I  t'eenk. 
You  no  git  nobody  go  weeth  you  in  dat  boat,  Ded's." 

Dedos  said  no  more,  only  sat  lumped  upon  him 
self  in  extravagant  trouble  while  my  father  fell 
to  work  again.  Because  I  was  so  young  I  filled 
in  the  pause  with  a  doggerel  couplet  I  had  heard 
in  Old  Harbor  streets  so  long  as  I  could  remember. 

Angle  is  a  scow; 
Better  sink  her  now. 

I  had  hardly  come  to  the  last  word  when  the  back 
of  my  father's  hand  sent  me  rolling  into  a  heap  of 


STORM 

tarred  weir-twine.  When  I  had  gotten  my  small 
frame  on  its  proper  end  once  more  he  was  still 
swearing  his  pregnant  Island  oaths,  and  through  the 
open  doorway  I  could  see  Dedos  lumbering  away, 
his  fingers  snapping  aimlessly  and  his  big  head  sunk 
forward  as  though  in  comical  determination  to  butt 
out  the  last  vestiges  of  the  western  fire. 

The  fair  name  of  a  woman  may  be  a  frail  thing, 
but  the  fair  name  of  a  ship  is  a  frailer  thing.  It  is 
mostly  the  women  that  whisper  about  women  (at 
least  it  was  so  in  Old  Harbor  and  when  I  was  a 
boy  of  ten),  and  the  old  men  that  whisper  about 
ships.  I  do  not  mean  that  they  actually  whisper 
— those  old  men  sitting  in  their  rockers  on  the  gray 
wharves  along  all  the  spacious  yellow  beach — but 
the  effect  is  of  a  vast  aggregate  of  little  voices, 
passing  judgment. 

The  little  voices  damned  the  Angle  before  ever 
her  keel  was  wet.  The  Angle's  builder,  up  Dor 
chester  way,  had  sent  down  a  "man-killer"  once 
before,  and  the  whispering  gossip  mulled  and 
mulled,  and  the  new  sloop  would  be  a  "bad  boat" 
— that  was  the  verdict  of  the  little  voices.  She  had 
no  witness,  no  counsel;  she  herself  was  not  even 
sitting  on  the  flat  circle  within  the  canted  yel 
low  ring  from  which  she  was  being  judged,  but 
there  she  was  damned  and  there  she  remained 
damned. 

A  man  killed  himself  in  her  cabin  on  the  trip 
from  the  yards.  After  that  no  one  would  ship  in 
her;  she  lay  idle  at  her  moorings  for  months  at  a 
time,  gathering  disrepute  and  disrepute,  so  familiar 
a  fixture  of  my  childhood  that  I  should  not  recall 

4 


STORM 

her  existence  at  all  had  she  not  helped  to  make  one 
of  those  pictures  which  stand  in  my  memory. 

Dedos  was  a  fool  to  take  the  Angle.  He  used  to 
emerge  from  the  crimson  destruction  of  an  evening 
and  sit  on  the  sail-cloth  in  the  shed,  the  same  droll 
pyramid  of  trouble.  And  every  evening  the  cres 
cendo  of  the  popping  fingers  led  up  to  the  same 
explosive  phrase:  "I  ain't  got  nobody  yet — an'  the 
mack'ral's  goin'  fast — fast." 

I  used  to  watch  Dedos's  fingers  with  a  boundless 
awe.  Try  as  I  might,  and  with  his  accomplish 
ments  always  in  eye,  it  was  but  a  poor  commotion 
I  could  raise  between  my  small  thumb  and  fore 
finger. 

It  was  perhaps  two  weeks  after  Dedos  took  the 
Angle  that  those  popping  fingers  ceased  to  qualify 
the  man  in  my  eyes,  and  he  was  suddenly  thrust 
forward  upon  my  stage,  clothed  in  the  habiliments 
of  romance.  And  romance  is  a  sweeping  and 
terrible  thing  to  a  boy  of  ten. 

I  was  out  that  afternoon  in  the  back  country  on 
the  affairs  of  a  pirate  cave  I  had  lately  finished  on 
the  Second  Ridge,  near  Paul  Dyer's  fields.  I  was 
dragging  along  a  fragment  of  an  old  sheet-iron  stove 
as  a  start  toward  cave-furnishing,  and  I  was  suffer 
ing  in  spirit — you  may  believe  it  or  not — because 
the  world  was  so  red.  There  is  no  other  place  in 
the  world  so  red  as  the  Cape  when  the  high-bush 
blueberries  turn. 

There  is  a  spot  beyond  the  fields,  a  little  hollow 
shut  away  from  the  water  and  the  sand,  which 
might  be  the  very  inner  temple  of  the  fire-god,  it 
is  so  crowded  with  still  flame.  It  was  here  that  I 

5 


STORM 

came  upon  a  girl,  picking  sprays  from  the  bushes. 
I  had  never  seen  this  girl  before,  but  beyond  that 
strangeness  there  was  another  and  deep  strangeness 
I  could  only  sense  vaguely  and  not  understand  at 
all.  She  looked  pale  and  fragile,  a  ghost  of  a  girl 
with  pallid  hair — but  this  was  the  fault  of  the  red 
world.  I  wondered  why  she  threw  the  sprays 
aside  as  fast  as  she  gathered  them,  and  why  she 
seemed  frightened  and  abashed  at  me. 

Then  came  to  my  ears  a  familiar  sound,  a 
rhythmic  popping  of  fingers,  and  there  was  Dedos, 
a  dun-colored  pyramid  looming  from  the  tapestry 
up-hill.  A  tremendous  solemnity  was  written  on 
his  face,  and  no  god  of  stone  was  ever  more  apart 
from  the  world  than  Dedos. 

I  stood  there  for  a  moment  matching  the  blue 
berry  bushes  with  my  embarrassment.  Then  I 
turned  and  ran,  leaving  the  stove  behind,  not  em 
barrassed,  but  important  as  one  who  should  go 
along  the  front  street  announcing  that  I  had  seen 
Dedos  with  a  girl. 

The  distinction  was  never  to  be  realized,  however. 
I  found  my  mother  in  the  kitchen  at  home,  mending 
an  old  oil-jacket  of  my  father's.  Outside,  on  the 
little  wharf  over  the  edge  of  the  Creek,  my  father 
was  talking  with  a  gentleman  whom  I  remembered 
to  have  seen  more  than  once  before  in  our  yard. 
He  was  not  a  large  man,  but  he  had  a  large  way  of 
looking  about  him — a  satisfied  substantiality  about 
the  wrinkles  which  radiated  from  the  corners  of  his 
eyes  that  gave  me  a  curious  feeling  that  the  little 
house  and  the  yard  and  the  wharf  and  Creek  and 
my  father  all  belonged  to  him.  Whether  they  did 

6 


S  T  O  EM 

or  not  I  cannot  say,  but  this  Mr.  Snow  was  Old 
Harbor's  rich  man,  a  sea-captain  in  the  China 
trade,  retired. 

Once  he  had  stopped  at  our  house,  on  his  way 
back  from  Truro  along  the  State  Road.  In  the 
back  seat  of  the  wagon  I  had  seen  a  baby  girl  with 
fuzzy  gold-brown  hair  sitting  beside  an  angular 
and  fluttering  female  in  tight  black.  I  remember 
that  I  was  immensely  awed  by  the  state  in  which 
the  expedition  moved. 

I  did  not  pay  him  much  attention  now,  however, 
but  made  haste  to  test  the  effect  of  my  tremendous 
news  upon  my  mother. 

"I  seen  Dedos  with  a  girl,"  I  pronounced. 

"Wat  girl  was  eet,  Zhoe?" 

"I  never  seen  her  before." 

My  mother's  attention  shifted  from  the  oil- 
jacket. 

"W'at  deed  she  look  lek,  Zhoe?" 

I  tried  to  tell  her  the  little  I  could  remember,  and 
my  little  was  enough  to  bring  her  down  upon  me  in 
a  torrent  of  whispered  passion  which  one  who  did 
not  know  her  would  have  taken  for  genuine  rage. 

"Don'  you  tell  nobody,  Zhoe,"  she  commanded, 
one  finger  before  her  lips  and  her  eyes  uneasily  upon 
Mr.  Snow  outside.  "Don'  you  tell  nobody.  An' 
don'  you  go  near  dat  girl,  Zhoe.  Do  you  hear  your 
mudder,  Zhoe?" 

"Why  for,  mother?" 

"Zhoe— dat's  the  Han'k'chief  Lady's  girl." 

And  so  was  the  cloak  of  romance  thrown  over  my 
mother's  cousin. 

Was  there  an  Old  Harbor  child  in  my  day  of 

7 


STORM 

youth  who  did  not  know  about  the  Handkerchief 
Lady?  Most  of  us  had  seen  her  at  one  time  or 
another  slipping  through  the  edges  of  the  town 
at  twilight  or  in  the  very  early  morning,  and  I  for 
one  had  come  upon  her  gathering  white  shells  on 
the  beach  half-way  to  Truro.  I  presume  it  was 
some  sort  of  a  veil  she  wore  over  her  face — to  Old 
Harbor  it  was  the  "han'k'chief." 

We  had  all  seen  the  Handkerchief  Lady,  but  none 
of  us  had  ever  seen  the  place  where  she  lived.  Her 
dwelling  was  a  hovel;  it  was  a  mansion;  it  was  a 
palace  of  horrible  witcheries;  it  was  a  hole  scraped 
in  the  sand.  It  lay  miles  away  over  the  dunes;  it 
was  in  the  neighborhood  of  Cahoon  Hollow  Station; 
it  was  near-by,  just  around  the  shoulder  of  some  hill 
a  boy  had  never  explored;  it  was  anywhere.  Some 
said  she  had  a  child,  others  denied  it,  and  I  have 
witnessed  fights  in  the  front  street  on  every  phase 
of  this  one  point.  The  only  thing  we  knew  surely 
was  that  nobody  had  ever  seen  the  Handkerchief 
Lady's  face. 

Of  course  we  were  wrong.  There  was  a  time 
when  many  people  had  seen  her  face  and  seen  that 
it  was  very  beautiful.  There  was  a  time  when 
the  Handkerchief  Lady  was  a  girl,  and  the  well- 
beloved  of  Old  Harbor.  Boys  of  ten  and  there 
abouts  should  not  know  of  these  things.  There 
came  a  time  when  eyebrows  were  lifted  with  mean 
ing  and  women  whispered  across  back  fences. 
There  came  a  time  when  these  same  women,  firm- 
mouthed  and  righteous,  plied  her  with  hard  ques 
tions;  but  she,  because  she  was  so  wicked,  hung  her 
head  and  would  not  tell  them  the  name  of  the 

8 


STORM 

father  of  the  child  she  was  going  to  bear.  There 
had  been  a  fine  yacht  and  a  fine  yachtsman  in  the 
harbor  that  spring.  The  women  remembered  this 
and  raised  their  brows  again. 

It  was  the  Handkerchief  Lady  who  went  out 
into  the  sand  the  day  after  that. 

And  now  suddenly,  through  the  touch  of  my 
kinsman,  I  found  myself  touching  this  remote  and 
mysterious  existence.  In  the  days  that  followed 
Dedos  took  on  for  me  all  the  trappings  of  romance. 
I  moved  along  the  edge  of  an  alluring  land,  op 
pressed  by  the  burden  of  my  secret  knowledge. 

I  saw  the  two  together  again  before  Dedos  sailed 
with  the  Angle.  They  were  walking  over  the  dunes 
beyond  Snail  Road,  the  man  floundering  heavily, 
the  girl  scarcely  discernible  except  when  a  ridge 
brought  her  against  the  sky.  So  long  as  I  could  see 
them  they  walked  far  apart  and  seemingly  un 
mindful  of  each  other. 

One  evening  Dedos  came  out  to  announce  that 
he  had  found  a  man  to  go  with  him — Johnnie  Silva. 
My  father  roared,  and  even  I  joined  in  the  mirth 
over  the  joke.  Johnnie  Silva  was  hardly  more 
than  a  boy,  and  half-witted  in  the  bargain. 

But  Dedos  was  not  through  with  his  ponderous 
comedy.  The  next  day  he  sailed  away  with  his 
frail  crew  and  a  brave  new  set  of  dragging-nets. 
He  put  them  down  in  the  wrong  place  and  took  no 
mackerel,  though  half  a  mile  to  the  leeward  Sim 
Mayo  stocked  seventeen  barrels.  He  went  again 
and  went  wrong  again — twice. 

My  father  was  dragging  with  Antone  Perez  that 
year,  in  the  Flores,  and  doing  very  well  as  dragging 

9 


STORM 

goes.  I  shall  always  remember  the  day  they  went 
out  for  the  last  set  of  the  season.  A  sharp  air  blew 
offshore,  catching  up  the  after-swell  of  a  dead 
easterly  in  a  diaphanous  violet  fringe  along  the 
beach,  and  this  fringe  at  either  extremity  of  sight 
merged  into  the  luminous  veil  that  shrouded  the 
horizon.  The  world  was  like  the  chamber  of  a 
shell  immeasurably  magnified. 

I  remember  the  veil  about  the  horizon  so  vividly 
because  against  it  I  saw  over  twenty  sail  of  draggers 
making  out  for  the  last  set.  One  of  them  was  the 
Angle. 

They  came  back  after  dark  that  night,  not  the 
nicely  slanting  fleet  I  had  seen  against  the  opales 
cent  veil,  but  a  straggling  rout  of  lights  fighting 
around  Long  Point  through  the  seas  of  a  north 
easter.  Long  before  sundown,  when  the  thing  was 
making  up,  my  mother's  hands  playing  in  one 
another  had  betrayed  her  mind,  and  since  that 
time  she  had  been  outdoors,  hovering  along  the 
front  fence,  with  her  eyes  to  sea.  Her  anxiety  grew 
with  the  hours,  and  as  the  dark  came  on  she  forgot 
about  me  and  worried  aloud.  It  was  not  till  one 
of  the  lights  drew  away  from  the  struggling  rout 
and  made  down  for  our  own  Creek  that  her  writhing 
hands  grew  calm  and  she  went  indoors  to  prepare 
a  belated  supper. 

I  ran  down  to  the  Creek  and  watched  the  Florcs 
come  to  an  anchor.  And  there  I  saw  something  lo 
set  me  wondering.  The  Flores  had  gone  out  that 
day  with  my  father  and  An  tone  Perez.  She  came 
back  with  three  men — even  through  the  streaming 

darkness  I  was  sure  of  it.    When  they  had  ferried 

10 


STORM 

ashore  I  saw  that  the  third  figure  was  Johnnie 
Silva. 

As  soon  as  the  three  had  come  into  the  kitchen  my 
mother  knew  that  something  was  wrong.  The  pict 
ure  of  her  hands  all  covered  with  meal  and  spread 
wide  in  apprehension  remains  with  me  to  this  day. 

"W'ere's  the  Angie?"  she  demanded.  "W'ere's 
heem — my  cousin?" 

She  had  to  put  the  question  again  before  she 
had  an  answer,  and  then  it  was  only  my  father's 
hand  gesturing  toward  the  open  sea. 

"Drownded?"  my  mother  screamed. 

"God  'e  knows,"  said  my  father,  hunching  his 
shoulders.  "Ded's  wouldn'  come  een.  We  got 
Johnnie  off  'eem — Ded's  wouldn'  come  een." 

"Says  he's  goin'  t'  git  feesh,"  Perez  broke  in, 
with  the  venom  which  hides  a  fisherman's  trouble, 
whatever  it  is.  "We  come  astern  o'  heem  an' 
p'inted  at  the  weather,  an'  he  stood  up  there  shakin' 
hees  head.  'I'm  goin'  t'  git  feesh  afore  I  goes 
een,'  he  says,  an'  we  couldn'  move  heem  if  all  hell 
was  comin'  over  the  sky-line.  We  got  Johnnie  off 
an'  come  een  weeth  the  rest.  Dedos  out  there  now 
— seven  mile  off  Plymouth." 

"Debil  sheep,"  growled  my  father.  He  had  been 
swearing  all  the  time — a  running,  terrible  bass, 
holding  up  the  other's  recitative. 

I  have  always  wondered  if,  when  they  ran  astern 
of  him  that  afternoon,  Dedos  stood  up  against  the 
sunset.  That  is  the  way  I  like  to  think  of  him, 
with  his  big  legs  apart  to  the  roll  of  the  "bad  boat," 
a  huge,  dark  silhouette  against  the  crimson  explo 
sion,  no  longer  a  ponderous  fugitive,  but  waiting. 

2  11 


STORM 

That  was  one  of  those  nights  when  the  little 
house  cannot  forget  that  it  sits  upon  a  frail  ribbon 
of  sand  forty  miles  to  sea.  The  harbor  cries  to  the 
bay,  and  the  bay  screams  to  the  ocean,  and  the 
ocean  thunders  back  across  the  Neck  to  the  crying 
harbor.  To  me  that  night  in  my  cot  under  the 
roof  came  the  talking  of  all  the  stations — the  bell 
at  Long  Point,  dismal;  the  Race,  with  its  blaring 
panic;  Peaked  Hill  moaning  and  sobbing;  and  the 
gibbering  agitation  of  High  Land.  And  all  through 
the  hours  before  I  slept  my  mind  could  never  leave 
off  thinking  of  my  mother's  cousin  riding  alone  in 
the  "bad  boat,"  "seven  mile  off  Plymouth." 

The  next  morning  I  lay  late  in  bed,  deceived  by 
the  darkness  in  my  garret.  It  was  one  of  those 
black  days  when  to  read  print  one  must  crowd  up 
close  to  the  window.  I  played  shipwreck  with  my 
little  brother,  Man'el,  almost  all  day,  down  in  the 
clamorous  fish-shed,  muddling  his  small  head  with 
terrific  denunciation  of  his  cowardice,  thundering 
at  him  to  go  ashore  with  the  rest,  while  I  posed 
with  my  feet  as  wide  apart  as  I  might  manage  on 
the  sail-cloth  and  defied  the  elements.  All  that 
day  men  came  out  along  the  State  Road  to  talk 
with  my  father  and  peer  through  the  scud  to  sea. 

The  second  day  more  people  came  out,  some  of 
them  women,  though  the  State  Road  was  a  booming 
hell  of  sand  and  wind  and  water.  I  noticed  that 
none  of  them  peered  to  sea  this  day,  and  that  the 
women  gathered  in  knots  and  looked  at  my  mother 
and  shook  their  heads.  After  a  while  it  came  to 
me  that  Dedos  must  be  dead. 

I  tried  to  get  this  through  my  brother's  head: 

12 


STORM 

I  did  my  best  to  make  him  understand  the  sudden 
importance  that  had  been  thrust  upon  us,  and 
grew  very  impatient  at  his  lack  of  enthusiasm. 
But  that  day  is  dwarfed  into  a  brief  and  unimpor 
tant  passage  of  time  by  the  night  which  followed — 
perhaps  the  most  momentous  night  of  my  boyhood 
— the  first  night  I  passed  outside  of  my  own  bed. 

Two  vessels  were  aground  on  Peaked  Hill  bars 
that  night.  Peaked  Hill  is  just  across  the  Neck  from 
us,  and  all  night  long  people  were  going  back  and 
forth  from  Old  Harbor,  most  of  them  stopping  for 
a  word  or  a  cup  of  coffee,  so  that  our  house  was 
like  a  stage  with  its  alarums  and  excursions.  My 
mother  was  so  busy  with  these  comings  and  goings 
that  she  forgot  all  about  me,  and  I  watched  the 
hands  of  the  kitchen  clock  move  around  with  a 
rising  sense  of  adventure. 

Any  shipwreck  is  the  cardinal  concern  of  a  sea- 
people.  My  mother  gathered  the  news  from  the 
incomers  and  passed  it  on  to  the  outgoers  with  such 
an  energetic  care  for  the  last  scrap  of  it  that  a 
new  idea  grew  up  in  my  head.  I  waited  for  a  mo 
ment  when  she  was  alone,  went  to  her  and  said, 
pointing  over  the  Neck  with  my  thumb: 

"Uncle  Dedos  out  there?" 

She  looked  at  me  and  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Zhoe;  Dedos  weel  never  come  back.  He 
dead.  He  drownded  een  dat  debil  boat — long  afore 
now,  Zhoe." 

So  I  had  been  right  before.  I  had  it  from  her 
own  lips. 

I  think  she  was  upon  the  point  of  sending  me 
off  to  bed  then,  but  at  that  moment  more  women 

13 


STORM 

came  in,  six  or  eight  of  them,  their  damp  clothes 
sending  up  a  mist  in  our  hot  front  room.  Over 
their  shoulders,  as  they  entered,  I  saw  a  streak  of 
the  moon,  and  knew  that  the  storm  had  broken 
with  a  shift  of  wind.  I  should  have  noticed  that 
the  world  seemed  strangely  quiet  long  before  had 
I  not  been  so  overcome  with  the  spectacle  of  the 
kitchen  clock  telling  the  hour  of  eleven,  and  my 
own  struggle  to  keep  awake. 

It  was  not  long  before  this  struggle  had  me  back 
to  my  last  ditch.  I  crawled  under  the  front  room 
table  to  hide  my  shameful  state  and  closed  my  heavy 
eyes,  unmindful  of  the  chattering  voices. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay  there  before  I 
was  awakened  by  an  abrupt  cessation  of  noise  in 
the  place.  Without  moving,  I  opened  my  eyes 
ever  so  little.  Then  I  opened  them  wide,  very 
much  awake. 

Young  as  I  was,  I  realized  that  something  very 
queer  would  be  afoot  with  the  Handkerchief  Lady's 
daughter  in  our  front  room.  She  stood  up  with 
her  back  against  the  door,  her  bare  feet  in  a  little 
ring  of  spattered  sand,  her  hands  tangled  in  her 
ragged  skirt,  and  her  head  bent  forward  and  smoth 
ered  under  its  burden  of  tawny  hair. 


II 

FAIR   NAMES 

FOR  a  long  time  not  a  sound  was  heard  in  the 
room.  I  couldn't  understand  for  the  life  of 
me  why  all  the  women  had  stopped  talking  because 
a  girl  no  more  than  half  the  age  of  the  youngest 
among  them  had  come  into  their  midst.  From 
where  I  crouched  in  the  shadow  I  could  see  old 
Mrs.  Sousa  staring  straight  ahead  of  her,  with 
little  hard  lines  radiating  from  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  After  a  time  I  heard  two  of  the  women 
whispering  in  another  part  of  the  room,  and  then 
my  mother's  voice,  loud  and  abrupt: 

"Wat  do  you  wan'  here,  girl?" 

I  believe  she  thought  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl 
had  come  about  Dedos — I  know  I  had  no  other  idea. 

"Wat  you  wan'?"  my  mother  asked  again.  The 
girl  remained  silent,  nor  did  she  move,  except  that 
her  hands  disentangled  themselves  from  the  skirt 
and  went  up  under  the  veil  of  hair.  In  the  quiet 
moment  that  followed  I  heard  the  tide  gnawing  at 
the  edges  of  the  Creek  and  footfalls  of  people  com 
ing  into  the  State  Road  from  the  path  across  the 
Neck.  The  girl  heard  the  footfalls  too,  moved 
from  the  door  and  stood  beside  the  table,  not  a 
yard  from  my  head. 

15 


STORM 

"W'y  don'  the  chiP  speak?"  Mrs.  Sousa  was 
saying,  each  word  separate  and  hard,  when  there 
came  a  crash  of  the  opening  door.  Then  there 
were  many  people  filling  the  little  room,  staring 
at  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl — a  dozen  voices 
mingling  questions. 

It  must  have  been  a  strange  and  terrible  coming 
into  the  world  for  that  child  of  vacant  places.  A 
fresh  circle  of  sand  grew  about  her  bare  feet,  close 
to  me — a  signal  that  her  ankles  were  shaking.  Of 
a  sudden  an  immense,  unreasoning  pity  for  her 
came  over  me.  I  hunched  myself  nearer  to  her, 
protruded  my  head  between  her  skirt  and  the  edge 
of  the  table,  all  unmindful  of  a  banged  ear  and  the 
crash  of  show  dishes.  Looking  up  under  the  hang 
ing  hair,  I  saw  that  her  face  was  drawn  and  her  eyes 
wide  with  fear,  and  I  lied  to  her  with  a  shrill  might 
that  hushed  the  clamor  of  the  room  in  the  space 
between  two  words. 

"He  ain't  dead,"  I  screamed  at  her.  "Eet's 
meestake — he  ain't  dead." 

"No — not  dead,"  she  screamed  back  at  me,  her 
face  whiter  than  ever  in  the  shadow.  Then  she 
turned  and  faced  the  room,  startled  into  courage. 

"No,"  she  cried  out,  "she  ain't  dead,  but  she's 
sick.  My  mother's  sick,  and  she  says  she'll  be 
dead — and  she  wants  a — a  minister." 

Then,  before  I  knew  it,  her  hand  was  gone  from 
my  shoulder  and  I  saw  her  skirt  fluttering  in  the 
blue  of  the  moon  out  of  doors. 

I  shall  always  remember  the  moment  that  fol 
lowed  as  the  moment  of  a  discovery  which  comes 
to  most  children  after  they  are  grown  up.  I  remem- 

16 


STORM 

her  saying  to  myself — and  these  are  not  words  put 
back  into  my  mouth  from  later  years — I  said  to 
myself:  "Why,  they're  actin'  like  they  was  kids 
an'  had  been  talked  to." 

It  struck  me  most  in  the  men — stern  and  serious 
men  with  wind-blackened  faces,  old  men  from  the 
Islands  who  had  jostled  the  elbow  of  death  every 
day  that  they  had  taken  their  bread — edging  away 
now  into  the  corners  of  the  room,  muttering  pity, 
wondering  what  was  to  be  done,  and  looking  every 
where  but  in  the  eyes  of  their  neighbors. 

I  didn't  know  what  the  women  were  about  till 
I  heard  two  of  them  whispering  near  me. 

"Eet's  out  beyond  Black  Water,"  one  of  them 
was  saying. 

"No,  eet  ain't.  Eet's  furder  t'  d'  east'rd.  An' 
eet's  queer — eet's  queer."  The  second  of  the  whis 
perers  smoothed  her  damp  apron  with  wide  gray- 
brown  hands. 

"I  t'eenk  I  beeter  go  out  an'  see  w'at  I  keen  do," 
she  said,  this  time  aloud.  Immediately  there  were 
a  dozen  women  who  would  go.  The  words  had 
been  like  a  spark  through  the  surcharged  atmos 
phere  of  the  room.  All  the  women  there  were 
ready  to  go  out  and  smooth  the  death-pillow  of  the 
Handkerchief  Lady.  In  the  common  revulsion  of 
feeling  they  were  ready  to  forgive  the  Handkerchief 
Lady  and  forget  her  sin — the  sin  of  going  away 
into  the  sand  that  long-ago  day  instead  of  coming 
to  them  in  humility.  I  may  have  been  an  over 
sensitive  child — I  do  not  know  why  I  should  have 
been — but  I  trembled  and  went  hot  all  over  at 
this  piling  up  of  sudden  kindliness. 

17 


STORM 

The  women  trooped  to  the  door,  leaving  the  men 
about  the  edges  of  the  room,  opened  it,  poured  out 
over  the  sill — and  stopped  there. 

Two  men  were  standing  in  the  moonlight,  one  of 
them,  the  larger,  with  his  hands  lifted.  The  second 
of  the  two  was  my  father.  I  had  not  seen  him  leave 
the  room.  He  must  have  gone  out  by  the  wharf 
way. 

The  man  with  the  lifted  hands  was  Father  Ven 
tura,  the  priest  of  Old  Harbor  parish.  The  Portu 
guese  boys  used  to  shout  at  the  Protestant  boys, 
when  I  was  a  child,  that  Father  Ventura  could  pick 
up  anybody  in  Old  Harbor  with  one  hand.  He  was 
such  a  priest  as  one  expects  to  find  along  the  fron 
tiers  of  the  world.  I  think  of  him  now  as  a  lawless 
man — a  man  who  loved  his  brother  more  than  he 
loved  the  letter  of  any  law. 

"Where  are  you  going,  children?"  he  asked. 
And  because  my  father  had  told  him  already,  he 
went  on  without  waiting. 

"No,  you're  not  going  out  there.  I'm  going 
alone." 

It  was  not  till  I  was  years  older  that  I  could 
understand  why  he  said  that. 

He  had  said  that  he  was  going  alone,  but  he  was 
wrong.  The  night  had  gotten  into  me.  I  slipped 
out  of  the  kitchen  door,  skirted  the  fish-shed  and 
a  corner  of  our  own  dune,  and  presently  came  up 
with  the  big  man  striding  to  the  northeast,  away 
from  the  State  Road.  Here  was  the  greatest 
adventure.  After  a  little  Father  Ventura  bent  down 
and  took  my  hand. 

It  was  an  odd-looking  world  we  went  through 

18 


STORM 

that  night.  The  wrack  of  the  broken  storm  stream 
ing  across  the  moon's  face  threw  a  multitudinous 
unrest  over  the  vacant  and  featureless  sand.  We 
seemed  to  trudge  along  through  the  rout  of  a  tre 
mendous,  impalpable  army. 

We  had  set  out  to  the  northeast,  but  with  the 
bending  of  the  shore-line  we  bore  more  and  more 
to  the  eastward  till,  looking  back  from  the  crest 
of  a  hummock,  I  saw  open  water  between  us  and 
the  lights  of  my  father's  house.  Then  we  passed 
Black  Water,  lying  stark  and  motionless,  as  though 
one  among  that  shadow  army  had  fallen  for  the 
last  time.  We  were  beginning  to  come  into  the 
massive  dunes  that  buttress  High  Head  to  the 
southeast.  All  my  life  I  had  wondered  about  those 
dunes  standing  across  a  corner  of  the  bay  from  me, 
and  here  right  away  was  something  to  speculate 
upon.  On  the  summit  of  the  last  shoreward  dune 
burned  a  tiny  spark  of  light.  We  passed  it  a  hun 
dred  yards  to  the  left,  but  I  could  make  out  nothing 
else  on  the  crest  but  the  bald  sand. 

We  had  come  a  long  way,  and  I  was  beginning 
to  tail  out  at  the  end  of  Father  Ventura's  arm  and 
near  wishing  I  was  in  my  bed  at  home,  when  we 
crossed  the  shoulder  of  a  rise  and  saw  below  us  the 
place  where  the  Handkerchief  Lady  lived. 

The  naked  sand  swept  down  from  the  north  and 
east  and  south  and  west,  without  a  flaw  of  any  kind 
to  marr  the  barren  ring.  A  thicket  of  trees,  like 
dregs  in  a  cup,  made  a  spot  of  black  in  the  center 
of  the  depression.  When  we  had  come  down  the 
side  of  the  bowl  we  had  to  wind  our  way  through 
the  tops  of  buried  trees  before  we  stood  on  the 

19 


STORM 

level  floor  of  the  thicket  itself.  The  sand  was 
gnawing  at  the  dregs.  I  went  to  the  spot  when  I 
was  in  Old  Harbor  a  year  ago,  and  the  sand  had 
finished  its  work.  The  cup  was  empty. 

Father  Ventura  must  have  been  there  before, 
because  we  were  immediately  in  a  narrow,  well- 
trodden  path,  with  the  light  of  a  window  shining 
at  the  other  end.  Here  we  had  to  go  in  single  file, 
so  I  let  go  of  Father  Ventura's  hand;  and  when  he 
had  come  to  the  door  and  opened  it  I  fell  back, 
suddenly  turned  timid,  and  stayed  outside  in  the 
glowing  checkerboard  under  the  window. 

I  was  not  at  all  afraid  here,  I  was  so  taken  up  with 
wonder  over  the  house.  I  call  it  a  house,  but  there 
is  really  no  word  to  say  what  the  Handkerchief 
Lady's  abode  was  like.  It  was  made  of  incongruous 
bits  of  almost  everything  one  can  imagine — boards, 
bricks,  stones,  tin  cans  flattened  out,  sail-cloth — 
but  all  fashioned  together  with  such  an  intricate 
fortune,  and  so  studded  and  patterned  with  many- 
colored  shells,  and  so  furbished  and  worked  upon, 
that  it  seemed  more  like  a  precious  trinket  wrought 
by  some  master-craftsman  than  any  human  dwell 
ing-place.  Nor  did  it  stop  with  the  house,  for  all 
the  open  space  about  it,  and  even  among  the  tree- 
trunks,  was  illuminated  and  embellished  with  pat 
terns  of  shells,  so  that  where  the  moonlight  fell  it 
appeared  like  silver  and  lacquer  work. 

From  the  memory  of  this  childhood  picture  I  have 
built  up  in  myself  a  monstrous  and  heretical  belief, 
and  that  is  that  the  Handkerchief  Lady  was  good. 

I  could  see  her  now  when  I  stood  on  tiptoe  and 

peeped  in  through  the  window.    She  lay  on  the  bed 

20 


STORM 

with  her  back  to  me,  and  I  saw  that  the  "handker 
chief"  was  not  there. 

The  priest  stood  over  the  bedside  with  a  crucifix 
in  his  hand,  talking,  but  not  loud  enough  for  me 
to  hear.  He  was  so  big,  and  the  crazy-cornered 
room  was  so  little,  that  he  appeared  to  my  eyes  to  be 
holding  the  whole  affair  about  him  with  his  shoul 
ders.  By  contrast,  the  frail  white  hand  of  the 
woman,  fluttering  away  the  things  he  was  saying 
to  her,  seemed  to  have  passed  over  already  into 
the  world  of  spirit.  For  many  years  I  could  not 
understand  that  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  fathers 
had  worshiped  God  at  Marston  Moor  and  so  she 
must  not  listen  to  him  whose  fathers  had  worshiped 
God  among  the  lemon-groves. 

The  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl  was  only  a  shadow 
to  me,  cast  upon  the  opposite  wall  from  some 
invisible  corner.  The  shadow  never  stirred  except 
when  the  priest  turned  his  head  toward  the  corner 
and  said  a  word  to  the  girl. 

After  a  time  it  seemed  that  Father  Ventura  talked 
about  the  girl,  quieting  the  dying  woman's  heart. 
He  told  her  he  was  going  to  take  her  daughter 
with  him  and  see  that  she  was  cared  for.  He  pic 
tured  a  place  of  wonderful  joy  and  beauty  where 
the  girl  was  to  be  welcomed,  and  I  think  the  mother 
believed  him,  but  the  shadow's  arms  were  up  now 
in  rigid  dissent  and  pleading,  and  when  he  per 
sisted  the  girl  hurried  out  of  the  corner  and  came 
to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

She  could  not  have  been  more  than  four  feet 
from  me  as  she  stood  there  looking  out  through 
the  night.  She  gazed  so  long,  and  with  such  an 

21 


STORM 

intensity  of  expression  on  her  face,  and  her  clenched 
hands  went  out  before  her  with  such  an  agony  of 
appeal,  that  I  turned  and  followed  her  eyes  to  see 
what  she  was  looking  at.  And  there,  just  over  the 
southern  rim  of  the  bowl,  burned  the  spark  of 
light  we  had  passed  on  our  way.  She  must  have 
heard  me  when  I  turned,  for  when  my  eyes  came 
back  to  her  she  was  staring  at  me  as  though  she 
were  seeing  a  ghost. 

"I  come  with  heem,"  I  explained,  pointing 
through  the  window.  She  turned  away  indoors 
with  a  little  gasp  at  me. 

And  then  the  Handkerchief  Lady  went  away, 
out  of  the  gray  bowl  with  the  dregs  at  its  bottom. 
She  had  her  two  hands  pressed  together,  praying 
in  her  own  way.  Father  Ventura's  lips  and  hands 
moved  through  the  form  of  extreme  unction  in 
silent  pantomime,  offered  in  spite  of  her  and  in 
spite  of  the  law.  And  thus  the  two  made  shift 
between  them  to  open  the  gates  of  heaven  to  the 
Handkerchief  Lady. 

At  the  last  she  raised  up  with  a  little  start  and 
fell  back  on  the  pillow,  with  her  face  upward  now, 
so  that  her  profile  came  before  me.  It  was  so  I 
saw  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  face  in  her  death. 
I  wondered  and  wondered  to  see  it  so  beautiful, 
for  people  in  Old  Harbor  whispered  that  she  had 
torn  and  marred  herself,  and  that  that  was  why 
she  wore  the  piece  of  cloth.  I  suppose  they  needed 
a  reason  for  something  that  was  beyond  them,  and 
made  it  up. 

And  now  came  my  first  great  fright  of  this  night. 

I  was  standing  with  my  nose  pressed  against  the 

22 


STORM 

glass  and  my  eyes  straining  at  this  great  and  tragic 
thing  that  my  head  was  too  small  to  take  in,  when 
the  grating  of  a  foot  on  shell  sounded  behind  my 
back.  I  was  so  startled  and  terrified  that  I  dropped 
on  my  knee  below  the  window,  and  for  an  instant 
could  not  bring  myself  to  look  around.  The  discreet 
footfalls  drew  nearer  to  me;  then  I  heard  an  oath 
gasped  out  above  and  became  aware  that  a  man 
stood  over  me  with  his  hands  reached  forward  to 
grasp  the  sill.  I  looked  up  directly  at  his  face, 
upon  which  the  full  glow  of  the  interior  modeled  a 
ghastly  stare — mouth  hanging  open,  brow  tortured 
by  the  convolutions  of  pain,  and  eyes  that  stared 
with  the  fixed  intensity  of  a  maniac. 

It  was  Mr.  Snow. 

It  is  strange  that  he  had  not  seen  my  silhouette 
when  he  approached  so  cautiously  over  the  shell 
patterns.  It  is  certain  that  he  had  not,  however, 
for  when  I  moved  an  ankle  in  my  fresh  terror  at 
finding  who  the  mad  night-walker  was,  it  touched 
his  leg,  and  he  was  startled  in  turn.  He  jumped 
away  from  the  window  with  a  rattle  in  his  throat, 
then  a  cackling  oath,  and  then  he  ran  away  through 
the  pale  tangle  of  the  thicket.  Later  I  saw  him, 
still  running  heavily,  pass  up  the  side  of  the  bowl 
like  a  monstrous  black  fly  and  disappear  over  the 
rim. 

There  was  no  time  just  now  to  try  and  under 
stand  this  happening.  Within  the  room  the  priest 
lifted  up  the  girl  who  was  down  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  and  drew  the  coverlet  over  the  Handker 
chief  Lady's  face.  Then  he  led  her  away,  talking 
all  the  time,  and  they  had  come  as  far  as  the  door 

23 


STORM 

when  she  realized  what  he  wanted.  I  know  now 
that  he  wished  her  to  come  back  to  my  father's 
house  with  me  while  he  stayed  and  watched  out 
the  night.  When  she  did  understand,  the  door  was 
already  open  and  I  could  hear  her  words. 

"I  can't  go  away,"  she  was  crying.  "I  can't 
go  away.  I've  got  to  stay  here — please — please." 

And  then  her  eyes  went  out  over  the  sand,  and 
she  stopped  with  a  sudden  in  taking  of  breath. 

"Why — why — it's  out,"  she  said,  slow  and  won 
dering.  "It's — gone — out — " 

The  next  moment  she  had  broken  away  from 
Father  Ventura  and  run  back  into  the  house. 
When  she  reappeared  she  seemed  distracted.  First 
she  made  as  though  she  would  run  away  through  the 
trees;  then  she  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder  at 
the  room;  and  then  she  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Father  Ventura  believed  she  had  gone  out  of  her 
mind.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders,  and  the 
touch  seemed  to  straighten  her  out  a  little.  She 
looked  down  at  me,  glanced  again  at  the  spot  where 
the  spark  had  been,  then,  bending  over,  thrust  into 
my  hand  a  candle  and  matches. 

"Run,  boy!"  she  whispered.  "Run,  run,  run 
and  light  the  lantern!  Go  quick — please." 

It  never  entered  my  head  to  question  when  she 
whispered  like  that.  I  did  not  even  look  at  the 
priest.  I  thrust  my  bulging  hand  into  a  pocket 
and  scurried  away  as  fast  as  my  legs  would  carry 
me  through  the  thicket  path  and  up  the  shelving 
sand  of  the  slope  to  the  south. 

I  was  not  going  so  fast  when  I  reached  the  top. 
Here  was  a  strange  enough  thing  for  a  child  to  be 

24 


STORM 

doing  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  have  often 
wondered  over  that  picture  of  myself,  laboring 
very  small  and  very  tired  up  that  sweep  of  moon 
lit  sand,  my  head  too  full  of  this  extraordinary 
night  to  be  at  all  amazed  or  appalled  at  being 
where  I  was.  I  had  long  ago  forgotten  how  queer  it 
was  that  a  light  should  be  burning  on  the  top  of  a 
barren  dune. 

When  I  came  to  the  crest  of  the  slope  I  looked 
out  across  a  mottled  valley  toward  a  hummock 
which  reared  over  its  other  side,  itself  in  the  shadow 
of  a  wisp  of  cloud.  In  the  strange  light  it  appeared 
a  day's  journey  away — it  was  really  not  above  a 
hundred  yards,  as  I  found  when  I  had  gotten 
myself  heavily  across  it. 

It  was  no  difficult  thing  to  find  the  lantern, 
hanging  from  a  twig  driven  in  the  sand,  for  beyond 
a  few  spears  of  "poverty  grass"  the  hummock  was 
bare  as  the  roof  of  a  house.  I  put  the  candle  into 
the  little  old-fashioned  box  of  glass,  lit  it,  and  sat 
down  within  the  circle  of  light  beneath. 

Here  I  was,  all  alone,  on  the  top  of  the  world. 
Rags  of  cloud  still  streamed  across  the  moon;  from 
the  invisible  beach  far  below  the  thin  crying  of  the 
surf  droned  up  to  me  in  my  little  chamber  of  light, 
and  it  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  be  years  since  I 
had  moved  or  spoken. 

I  was  so  very  sleepy.  My  sight  seemed  to  have 
become  ponderable,  so  that  I  moved  it  from  place 
to  place  with  a  definite  effort.  It  rested  upon  the 
path  of  the  moon's  reflection  athwart  the  bay,  and 
from  there  I  could  not  lift  it. 

And  now  happened  one  of  the  strangest  things 

25 


STORM 

my  memory  has  to  show  me.  As  I  stared  and 
stared  at  that  long  shimmering  lane  I  became 
aware  that  something  lived  upon  it — something  low 
and  black,  coquetting  sluggishly  with  the  intricate 
whirls  and  convolutions  of  the  watery  fire,  floating 
idly,  and  yet  progressing  across  the  path  from  the 
east  to  the  west.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer  the 
western  edge,  and  then,  just  as  it  was  about  to 
vanish  from  the  flaming  street,  it  appeared  to  hesi 
tate,  then  to  shrink  upon  itself  till  it  showed  only 
a  fraction  of  its  former  bulk.  For  some  inexplicable 
reason  somebody's  boat  out  there  had  worn  about 
and  was  standing  in  for  the  shore  and  the  lantern 
and  me. 

It  grew  before  my  eyes,  sidling  down  the  edge  of 
the  light  like  some  king's  hunchback  of  old,  clinging 
to  the  balustrade  of  the  palace  stairway.  All  my 
days  I  had  seen  boats — boats  of  every  kind — but 
my  eyes  had  never  rested  upon  the  like  of  this. 
It  was  a  harlequin  of  all  boats,  a  travesty  on  the 
whole  beauteous  race  of  them.  Its  mast  was  broken 
in  half,  its  sails  a  gossamer  of  rags,  it  lurched  and 
veered  and  wallowed  like  a  disreputable  character 
far  in  his  cups. 

Thus  it  came  along  until  the  curve  of  the  dune 
obliterated  it,  so  that  I  could  not  see  how  it  came 
to  the  beach. 

I  was  now  so  done  up  with  the  night,  and  my 
mind  so  battered  and  outraged  by  the  things  that 
had  been  put  upon  it,  that  I  verily  believed  the 
thing  crawling  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hummock 
a  little  later  was  the  crazy  boat  itself.  The  black 
hulk  reeled  against  the  sheen  of  the  water  behind 

26 


STORM 

in  the  same  abandoned  way  as  it  progressed  pon 
derously  up  the  long,  smooth  slope.  After  the  first 
moment  of  panic  I  knew  that  it  must  be  a  man. 
And  then,  as  the  silhouette  broadened  and  darkened, 
I  fell  into  such  another  fright  that  I  could  not  have 
moved,  I  believe,  had  I  been  struck  with  a  whip. 

It  was  Dedos. 

But  Dedos  was  dead.  Everybody  knew  Dedos 
was  dead. 

It  was  Dedos.  But  I  had  my  mother's  word 
that  Dedos  was  dead. 

Then  it  was  the  ghost  of  Dedos. 

He  came  up  and  passed  over  the  ridge,  not  fifty 
feet  from  where  I  cowered  under  the  lantern.  His 
head  was  sunk  forward  upon  his  chest,  his  garments 
hung  loose  about  him,  as  though  he  had  lost  half 
his  girth.  And  yet  he  seemed  immeasurably  larger 
than  I  had  ever  seen  him  in  other  days — gigantic, 
portentous,  terrifying. 

He  passed  over  and  down  the  other  side.  And 
when  I  looked  across  the  little  valley  another  big 
black  man  was  coming  down  the  opposite  slope. 
It  was  Father  Ventura,  coming  to  get  me.  They 
met  at  the  bottom  of  the  hollow.  I  could  see  the 
priest's  arms  raised  in  wonder,  and  even  his  word 
came  to  me. 

"Dedo*r 

Then  Dedos  was  talking  and  the  priest  listening, 
raising  his  arms  in  other  wonder  and  repeating 
in  a  different  way,  "Dedos" 

After  that  the  two  men  started  back  up  the  slope 
toward  the  rim  of  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  cup. 
As  thev  went  they  grew  to  be  monstrous  creatures 

3  27 


STORM 

that  reeled  and  staggered  up  an  endless  stairway 
of  cold  fire  leading  away  into  the  moon — but  the 
last  part  of  this  was  in  my  dream. 

The  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  being  lifted  in 
some  one's  arms.  I  opened  my  eyes  to  the  light 
of  a  new  day  and  looked  down  over  my  father's 
shoulder  into  shallow  water  over  white  sand.  He 
stood  to  his  thighs  in  our  own  creek,  and  there, 
when  I  lifted  my  hot  lids,  was  the  little  house, 
looking  thin  and  unreal  in  the  horizontal  rays  of 
the  sun.  It  was  utterly  beyond  me  at  that  moment 
to  try  and  understand  why  a  multitude  of  people 
should  be  crowding  along  the  bank  and  gesticulating 
in  our  direction,  or  how  Mr.  Snow  should  stand 
among  them,  as  substantial  and  unruffled  in  his 
white  collar  and  waistcoat  as  though  he  had  never 
in  his  life  gone  dune-running  of  a  night.  I  closed 
my  eyes  again. 

After  a  little  I  opened  them  and  turned  my  head. 
Three  or  four  feet  away,  and  low  down,  was  the  rail 
of  a  wrecked  sloop — wrecked,  in  that  everything 
above-decks  was  either  washed  away  or  battered 
to  shreds.  It  was  beginning  to  cant  to  port  with 
the  seeping  away  of  the  tide.  It  was  the  Angle. 

Two  figures  stood  up  near  the  wheel  in  the  stern — 
Dedos  and  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl.  Dedos's 
huge  arm  lay  across  the  girl's  shoulders,  and  he 
looked  out  at  the  people  on  shore  with  something 
so  nearly  akin  to  defiance  that  it  seemed  incredible 
on  the  face  of  fat  and  comical  Dedos.  There  were 
new  lines  along  his  face,  his  shirt  hung  about  him 
in  damp  festoons;  he  was  not  so  heavy  by  twenty 

28 


STORM 

pounds  as  when  the  fleet  of  draggers  went  out,  so 
nicely  slanting. 

And  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl.  I  do  riot 
know  what  to  say  about  the  Handkerchief  Lady's 
girl,  for  I  can  find  no  words  to  tell  the  way  in 
which  she  stood  close  to  Dedos  and  looked  up  at 
him.  Never  was  so  much  sadness  and  gladness 
together  in  any  one,  not  struggling,  but  mingling 
in  peace. 

For  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl  of  yesterday 
possessed  as  fair  a  name  as  any  in  Old  Harbor 
this  day.  There  had  been  a  marriage  as  well  as  a 
death  in  the  house  of  motley  the  night  before.  I 
know  all  about  that  marriage  now,  for  I  have  heard 
it  told  time  and  time  again  by  her  own  lips,  when 
I  was  still  a  boy  and  she  my  Aunt  Agnes.  Then 
I  knew  that  light  was  burning  upon  the  bald  hum 
mock  because  she  and  Dedos  had  made  it  up 
between  them  that  she  should  put  it  there  if  ever 
she  should  be  in  great  trouble — to  be  seen  from  the 
town  or  the  bay. 

Now  my  father  hitched  me  over  to  the  other 
shoulder  and  spoke  to  Dedos. 

"  W'ere's  Fadder  Ventura?"  he  asked. 

Dedos  pointed  back  across  the  corner  of  the  bay 
toward  High  Head. 

"He's  watchin',"  he  said. 

Then,  leaving  the  girl  by  the  wheel,  he  walked 
forward,  got  down  on  his  knees,  lifted  a  hatch,  and 
plunged  his  arms  into  the  water  which  almost 
filled  the  hull  of  the  Angle.  When  his  hands  came 
up  again  my  father  and  I  and  all  the  people  along 
the  shore  saw  that  they  were  full  of  mackerel.  He 

29 


STORM 

threw  them  over  the  side,  went  down  and  brought 
up  others  and  others,  casting  them  abroad  over 
the  water  with  a  gesture  which  no  alien  air  will 
ever  efface  in  a  child  of  the  Islands. 

"By ,"  my  father  marveled;  "he  got  feesh — 

lek  he  said.  Damn — dat's  one  good  boat — dat 
Angle!" 


m 

I   START   UP-STREET   AND   GO  MUCH   FARTHER 

EOKING  back  at  it  now,  it  seems  to  me  that 
Old  Harbor  must  have  been  the  strangest 
town  in  a  thousand  miles.  When  I  was  a  boy  there 
it  boasted  but  a  single  street  worthy  of  the  title 
(the  "back  street"  came  to  be  another,  but  that 
grew  up  with  me). 

Between  this  "front  street"  and  the  beach  a 
solemn  file  of  fish-houses,  sail-lofts,  wharves,  chan 
dlers'  stores,  and  structures  of  the  like  sort  lounged 
like  seasoned  critics  at  a  "first  night,"  each  with 
one  eye  upon  the  nautical  drama  of  the  harbor  and 
the  other  upon  the  hoi-polloi  beyond  the  aisle. 

But  never  was  such  a  hoi-polloi  of  crazy-cornered 
houses  as  that,  jammed  in  between  the  aisle  of  the 
front  street  and  the  barren  gallery  of  the  sand-hills. 
Never  did  so  small  a  company  of  dwellings  face 
so  many  different  quarters  of  the  compass,  and 
never  did  tormented  lanes  and  alleyways  so  nearly 
break  their  backs  trying  to  win  the  front  stoops  of 
all  of  them. 

But  the  town  was  stranger  still  in  the  passing 
populations  of  men  which  it  harbored.  I  remember 
one  week-long  gale  when  it  seemed  to  me  that  all 
the  seafaring  nations  of  the  earth  jostled  elbows  in 

31 


STORM 

our  little  street.  I  have  seen  the  open  square  at 
the  head  of  Long  Wharf  perfectly  white  with  man- 
of-war's-men,  and  fine  white  threads  of  them  seep 
ing  away  through  the  breakneck  lanes.  When  the 
fleet  came  back  from  the  Banks,  of  an  autumn,  the 
town  to  the  westward  was  like  a  flower-garden  gone 
to  riot  with  the  scarves  and  reefers  of  the  men. 
Then,  especially  in  the  later  years,  Old  Harbor 
might  have  been  anywhere  in  the  world  but  in  New 
England,  and  the  tongue  of  my  own  fathers,  the 
Island  Portuguese,  blotted  out  the  native  speech. 

One  of  the  very  special  days  of  my  boyhood  was 
that  in  my  eleventh  year,  when  I  was  allowed  to 
go  "up-street"  all  alone  to  make  a  visit  at  the  house 
in  Shank  Painter  where  Dedos  and  my  Aunt  Agnes 
had  lived  ever  since  the  day  after  that  momentous 
night  when  the  Handkerchief  Lady  died.  I  had 
been  up  there  before,  but  always  "taken  along." 
Now  it  was  upon  a  special  invitation  to  myself,  and 
myself  all  alone,  that  I  set  out  upon  the  State  Road 
about  ten  o'clock  of  a  sunshiny  April  morning, 
very  grand  in  my  best  suit  and  rather  disgusted 
at  the  racket  that  little  Man'el  raised  by  kicking 
at  the  inside  of  the  gate  and  ho.wling. 

I  walked  along  briskly,  with  my  hands  in  my 
jacket  pockets  and  my  eyes  on  the  roofs  and 
steeples  ahead.  It  was  a  very  large  world  that 
morning,  pregnant  with  possibilities  of  adventure 
and  romance,  and  I  the  only  visible  heir  to  them 
all  just  now.  One  may  be  as  tall  as  a  grenadier 
and  stout  as  a  Father  Ventura  so  long  as  there  is 
not  another  about  to  destroy  the  proportions. 

I  was  joined  by  a  man  who  had  been  working 

32 


STORM 

on  the  sea-wall  in  front  of  Monty  Guarda's  cottage, 
where  the  front  street  officially  relieves  the  State 
Road.  I  did  not  like  this  man  on  account  of  his 
eyes,  which  were  little  and  shrewd  and  peering.  I 
liked  him  still  less  when  he  hailed  me  as  "Joey 
Snow,"  as  if  to  curry  favor  with  me  by  taking  me 
for  a  son  of  Old  Harbor's  rich  man,  in  my  fine 
suit  of  serge. 

"My  name  ain't  'Snow,'"  I  ruffled. 

"Ain't  Snow?    Oh,  I  guess  it  is.    I  know  you." 

I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of  this  little-eyed 
man.  I  walked  faster.  He  lengthened  his  stride. 
I  wanted  to  run,  but  the  dignity  of  that  special 
invitation  held  me  back.  Mr.  Hemans,  the  "  down- 
street"  blacksmith,  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his 
shop.  My  tormentor  appealed  to  him. 

"D'you  know  this  lad,  Will?" 

Mr.  Hemans  squinted  at  me  carefully.  "Why, 
that's  Tony  Snow's  boy,  ain't  it?  Ginny — " 

You  may  figure  me  now,  no  longer  bound  by  the 
shackles  of  dignity,  running  away  up-street  as  tight 
as  I  could  go,  with  dumfounderment  in  my  head 
and  fear  in  my  heart. 

"My  name's  Joe  Mania"  I  panted  over  and 
over,  in  desperation;  but  somehow  those  two  mis 
takes  had  suddenly  taken  the  familiar  sound  out 
of  it,  and  in  my  terrified  bewilderment  I  never 
stopped  till  I  had  galloped  all  the  way  to  the  mouth 
of  Shank  Painter. 

There  I  recollected  in  time  that  here  was  no 
way  to  blunder  into  a  house,  panting  and  dripping, 
when  one  had  come  by  special  and  particular  invi 
tation.  So  I  eased  up,  and  between  my  anxiety 

33 


STORM 

to  be  there  and  my  ideas  of  dignified  and  formal 
approach  I  made  a  moderate  pace  of  it  till  I  stood 
knocking  at  the  door  at  last. 

Aunt  Agnes  was  a  long  time  in  coming.  When 
she  did  open  the  door  she  bundled  me  into  the 
parlor  without  much  ceremony  and  ran  away  out  of 
sight  with  something  thrown  over  her  shoulder 
about  pies  in  the  oven  or  out  of  the  oven,  I  never 
learned  which. 

I  was  somewhat  surprised  by  this  abrupt  recep 
tion.  But  I  was  more  dumfounded  at  the  spectacle 
which  met  my  eyes  in  the  parlor.  It  seemed  that 
I  was  not  the  only  guest  that  day,  after  all.  For 
here  was  certainly  another  visitor,  and  one  who 
commenced  straightway  to  attract  my  attention 
by  every  gesticulation  known  to  a  little  girl  of 
seven.  After  my  first  moment  of  consternation  I 
paid  no  attention  to  her,  but  got  up  in  a  chair  and 
sat  on  the  middle  of  my  back  so  that  my  feet  would 
touch  the  floor.  Presently  I  remembered  to  take 
off  my  cap,  then  I  stared  about  at  the  bric-a-brac 
and  the  pictures  on  the  walls  with  intense  interest; 
but,  no  matter  how  I  would  look  the  other  way,  there 
was  that  child  in  some  corner  of  my  vision,  turning 
her  head  over  to  one  side  to  smile  at  me,  or  holding 
up  a  shell  just  to  show  off  the  curve  of  her  wrist, 
or  jumping  furiously  up  and  down  and  clicking  her 
heels  together.  I  decided  that  this  baby  was  trying 
to  make  a  fool  of  me.  I  wished  very  much  that 
Aunt  Agnes  would  come  in  and  put  an  end  to  this 
idiotic  business,  for  it  embarrassed  me  to  have  to 
ignore  the  child  so  pointedly. 

If  I  thought  she  was  to  be  ignored,  pointedly  or 

34 


STORM 

otherwise,  I  was  mistaken  in  the  young  person's 
character.  When  all  other  wiles  had  failed,  she 
approached  my  chair  by  the  unique  method  of  hop 
ping  on  one  foot  while  she  held  the  other  in  her  two 
hands,  and  put  to  me  the  question  direct. 

"What's  your  name?" 

She  had  succeeded.  "Joe  Mania,"  I  screamed 
at  her. 

I  was  beginning  to  see  a  wide  and  well-laid  con 
spiracy  against  the  security  of  my  name,  and  here 
was  one  of  the  conspirators  trying  to  catch  me  off 
my  guard.  She  was  dancing  up  and  down  now  and 
clapping  her  hands. 

"What's  your  name?"  she  cried,  tossing  her  hair 
at  me.  And  I  shrieked  it  back  at  her  louder  than 
before  and  slapped  her  hand  that  was  out  toward 
me,  I  was  so  furious.  She  was  the  most  amazing 
child.  She  drew  the  injured  member  back  and 
petted  it  with  her  other  hand,  such  a  cataclismic 
storm  on  her  brow  as  I  have  never  seen  on  another. 
It  was  so  magnificent  that  I  would  gladly  have 
sunken  farther  down  in  my  chair  had  I  not  been 
afraid  I  would  slip  and  make  matters  worse  than 
ever.  Then,  before  I  knew  it,  she  was  hopping  up 
and  down  and  gurgling  and  crying  for  me  to  say 
it  again.  But  Aunt  Agnes  was  in  the  doorway  by 
this  time,  wanting  to  know  what  all  the  fuss  was 
about. 

I  was  very  red  and  dumb.  It  was  difficult  to  say 
what  all  the  fuss  was  about.  She  told  me  the  little 
girl's  name  was  Allie  Snow.  Then  I  was  still  more 
suspicious  and  glum,  making  a  gloomy  meal  of 
dinner,  which  we  three  ate  alone,  because  Dedos 

35 


STORM 

was  away  dragging  and  no  telling  when  he  might 
be  home.  We  had  come  to  the  pie  before  I  had 
anything  to  say. 

"Aunt  Agnes,"  I  demanded,  suddenly,  "my 
name  eez  Manta,  ain't  eet?" 

Allie  giggled  at  that. 

"Why,  of  course  it  is,"  Aunt  Agnes  assured  me. 

"Eet  ain't  Snow,  eez  eet?"  I  persisted.  She 
looked  at  me  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"Who's  been  calling  you  Snow?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  some  men." 

"Well,  don't  you  mind,  Joe.  It's  because  they 
don't  know  any  better."  Then,  understanding  how 
real  my  little  trouble  was,  she  went  on:  "You  see, 
Joe,  when  your  father  came  here  he  was  a  sailor 
in  one  of  Mr.  Snow's  ships,  and  so  people  around 
here  were  too  lazy  to  find  out  all  the  new  men's 
names  and  so  called  them  all  Snow  for  a  while. 
See?" 

I  nodded  my  head.  "D*  they  call  you  Snow, 
Aunt  Agnes?" 

I  have  no  idea  what  made  me  ask  that  question, 
nor  could  I  understand  the  sudden  redness  of  her 
face  or  the  whiteness  that  followed.  But  I  was 
aware  in  a  vague  way  that  both  of  us  were  uncom 
fortable.  I  hurried  with  another  question. 

"Aunt  Agnes,  what's  a  ginny?" 

"7'm  a  ginny,  eef  anybody  wan'  a  know  eet." 

It  was  not  Aunt  Agnes  who  answered,  but  big 
Dedos,  who  had  tottered  up  to  the  door  in  an  agony 
of  discretion  to  give  the  Handkerchief  Lady's 
daughter  a  surprise,  and  now  choked  the  opening 
with  his  wide  person. 


STORM 

"Joe,"  he  announced,  solemnly,  "you  call  y'self 
ginny,  an'  eet's  all  righ',  but  eef  anybody  udder  call 
you  ginny,  you  geet  'eem,  see?" 

And  I  remembered  that. 

After  Dedos  had  finished  his  meal  we  all  went 
into  the  front  room  for  a  while,  before  the  dinner 
dishes  should  be  done  up.  There  was  one  thing 
that  I  could  not  fathom  for  the  life  of  me — why 
Aunt  Agnes  should  forever  be  hugging  and  kissing 
little  Allie  Snow,  or  holding  her  off  at  arm's  length 
to  look  at  her,  or  whispering  things  in  her  ear.  I 
told  myself  fiercely  that  I  didn't  care  and  turned 
my  attention  to  Dedos,  who  sat  in  a  comfortable 
lump  where  he  could  see  out  of  the  front  window. 
But  all  the  same,  here  was  my  great  day  in  a  fair 
way  to  being  robbed  of  all  its  glamour,  when  some 
thing  occurred  that  set  its  course  pounding  off  in 
an  utterly  unexpected  quarter,  where  it  was  to 
gather  more  of  the  light  of  high  adventure  than  I 
had  dreamed. 

Aunt  Agnes  and  little  Allie  had  been  carrying 
on  in  their  unaccountable  way  for  perhaps  half  an 
hour,  with  me  kicking  my  heels  in  wretchedness 
and  jealousy,  when  of  a  sudden  I  marked  such  a 
look  of  dismay  upon  Dedos's  comical  features  that 
I  slid  off  my  chair  with  an  involuntary  squeak  and 
ran  to  look  over  his  shoulder. 

What  I  saw  in  the  street  was  this.  Perhaps  a 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  down  Shank  Painter  came 
Mr.  Snow,  ruddy  and  pompous.  His  face  was  more 
than  usually  red  and  bulbous,  and  he  approached 
with  a  heavy  velocity  that  struck  me  as  somehow 
portentous.  Another  figure  hovered  in  the  middle- 

37 


STORM 

distance,  a  gaunt,  yellow-skinned  female  in  uncom 
monly  tight  black,  who  alternately  fluttered  her 
hands  above  her  head  and  clamped  them  over  her 
mouth — such  a  picture  of  panic  and  indecision  that 
she  made  the  other  seem  twice  as  awesome  as  he 
must  have  been. 

I  was  so  taken  up  with  this  bizarre  couple  that 
I  had  heard  no  sound  behind  me  till  I  felt  Aunt 
Agnes's  hand  fall  on  my  shoulder  and  caught  her 
exclamation  of  dismay. 

"She  told  me  he  wouldn't  be  back  till  to-morrow," 
she  gasped. 

Dedos  did  not  answer.  He  appeared  to  have 
been  struck  dumb  by  the  spectacle.  She  shook 
his  shoulder,  then  turned  and  caught  up  the  child 
in  her  arms.  "Quick — something's  got  to  be  done. 
Do  you  hear,  man?" 

This  was  all  completely  beyond  me.  Perhaps 
the  very  obscurity  helped  to  etch  the  scene  upon 
the  retina  of  my  memory;  at  any  rate,  after  all 
these  years  I  carry  a  very  vivid  picture  of  that  red, 
fuming,  rich  man  of  Old  Harbor  set  off  by  the 
somber  and  fluttering  housekeeper  in  his  wake, 
framed  in  the  brilliant  multi-paned  window  of 
Dedos's  front  room. 

They  grew  perilously  large  in  their  frame  before 
Aunt  Agnes  plucked  at  my  coat  and  rushed  away 
toward  the  kitchen,  carrying  Allie  and  crying  over 
her  shoulder  for  me  to  follow.  A  thunderous  knock 
ing  at  the  front  door  found  me  in  mid-flight  through 
the  dining-room,  and  its  muffled  clamor  still  per 
sisted  when  I  stood  on  the  back  steps  listening  to 
Aunt  Agnes's  low,  hurried  words. 

38 


STORM 

"Joe — quick — take  Allie's  hand.  Run  around  by 
the  back  way  just  as  fast  as  you  can  go.  Now  run." 

From  around  the  corner  of  the  house  came  the 
gaunt  woman's  protestations,  chopped  into  frag 
ments  by  the  fluttering  hand.  "She's  down  at— 
I  tell  you  she's — down  at — Mrs. — Nickerson's— 

Aunt  Agnes  listened,  then  swung  the  child  up 
again,  hugged  her,  and  whispered  fiercely:  "Re 
member — remember,  Allie  dear — you've  been  down 
at  Rosie  Nickerson's.  Remember.  Now  run." 

Then  she  kissed  her,  waving  us  off,  her  eyes  peer 
ing  distractedly  into  the  half -gloom  of  the  kitchen. 
We  had  come  to  the  alley  at  the  back  of  the  yard 
before  that  distant  rumble  of  knocking  left  off  with 
the  faint  creak  of  a  door  opening. 

Aunt  Agnes  had  told  me  to  run,  and  I  did  run, 
through  brush  and  heaps  of  cans  and  a  puddle  or 
so,  not  being  over-careful,  I  am  afraid,  to  see  that 
my  charge's  small,  white-shod  feet  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  ground. 

But  she  had  neglected  to  mention  where  I  should 
run,  and  by  the  time  I  had  decided  that  I  could  not 
in  any  way  understand  the  affair  I  had  arrived  at 
the  spot  where  a  straight  line  drawn  with  Dedos's 
back  fence  would  naturally  bring  one — more  defi 
nitely,  the  top  of  Pink  Hill,  which  lies  to  the  north 
ward  of  what  later  came  to  be  the  back  street. 
And  here,  right  away,  was  an  object  of  interest. 
The  man  who  lived  in  the  cottage  on  Pink  Hill 
had  built  a  chicken-pen  of  the  most  extraordinary 
nature,  using  a  strange  net  of  wire  in  place  of  the 
condemned  weir-twine  that  ordinary  folks  used. 

I  examined  this  with  care  and  at  some  length. 

39 


STORM 

Then  my  attention  was  taken  by  the  gory  heads  of 
three  fowls  lying  beside  a  chopping -block,  and 
immediately  my  mind  flew  back  to  a  story  of  my 
father's  which  had  fired  my  imagination  the  after 
noon  before. 

"See  dem  chick'ns?"  I  inquired,  portentously, 
pointing  through  the  novel  fence.  "Poor  chickens." 

I  have  never  seen  any  other  face  capable  of  such 
instantaneous  and  entire  change. 

"Day  before  yisteday,"  I  announced,  "they  was 
one  man  over  to  Helltown  bit  off  annudder  man's 


nose." 


"Oh  —  oh  —  oh!"  she  squealed,  hopping  faster 
than  ever.  "I  want  to  see  him." 

So  you  see  it  was  her  fault,  after  all. 

"Oh,  eet's  long  ways  off,"  I  told  her,  waving  a 
hand  over  the  dunes  which  raised  their  bald  heads 
beyond  the  strip  of  greenery  to  the  north.  She 
clapped  her  hands. 

"You're  too  leetle,"  I  sneered,  to  cover  my  sense 
of  slipping.  But  she  would  hear  no  more.  She  ran 
a  few  steps  over  the  hill  and  stopped  to  make  eyes 
at  me,  then  ran  on  and  repeated  the  performance. 
After  all,  we  would  be  back  before  dark.  My  Aunt 
Agnes  it  was  who  had  told  us  to  run — she  would  be 
as  much  to  blame  as  this  preposterous  infant.  And 
besides,  I  had  determined  to  go  the  moment  my 
eyes  fell  upon  those  heads  in  the  chicken-pen. 

We  made  a  rush  of  it,  sliding,  tumbling,  spatter 
ing  down  the  slope  into  Shank  Painter  road,  scut 
tling  through  the  swamp-maples  and  bull-brier 
thickets  at  a  wonderful  rate.  Once  in  the  Race 
road  I  was  comparatively  at  home,  for  I  had  been 

40 


STORM 

over  to  the  Race  once  before  with  my  father,  and  I 
knew  Helltown  must  lie  somewhere  to  the  south 
ward  of  that. 

The  sun  was  not  so  high  as  it  should  have  been 
when  we  came  to  the  top  of  the  first  dune,  and  we 
had  a  long  way  ahead  of  us.  Here,  for  the  first 
time,  I  began  to  feel  the  pangs  of  conscience,  not 
un mingled  with  thoughts  of  the  back  country  after 
dark,  and  that  ultimate  scene  in  the  fish-house  when 
I  came  home.  That  made  me  think  of  my  fine 
clothes.  They  were  far  from  fine  now,  with  that 
scramble  through  the  bull-brier  trail.  I  looked 
down  at  my  accomplice. 

"You  too  leetle  t'  go  all  the  way  t'  Helltown," 
I  announced.  The  next  instant  she  was  dancing 
a  dozen  yards  ahead,  laughing  and  tossing  the  sand 
with  her  toes.  I  must  try  a  firmer  method.  I 
turned  my  back  to  her  and  shouted:  "I'm  goin' 
home." 

"Pa-Jim,"  she  jeered.    "Aw— Pa-Jim." 

I  turned  and  followed  her  twinkling  shoes,  my 
own  plodding.  Of  course  I  could  not  go  back  after 
that  Old  Harbor  taunt,  "Pa-Jim,"  the  nickname 
of  a  fabulous  coward  of  another  generation  in  our 
town. 

When  we  stood  on  the  second  ridge  I  was  more 
than  ever  alarmed  to  find  the  wind  gone  into  the 
east  and  a  low  belt  of  fog  beginning  to  dim  the  hills 
behind  us.  And  there  in  the  west,  by  some  tem 
poral  miracle,  the  last  bulwark  of  sand  had  eaten 
up  half  the  sun.  I  was  willing  to  turn  back  in 
good  earnest  now,  but  we  had  only  to  go  over  the 
next  rise  to  look  down  upon  Race  Run,  and  Allie 

41 


STORM 

was  already  half  across  the  hollow,  while  I  stood 
gawking  at  the  weather. 

It  was  like  her  to  go  bounding  up  the  next  slope, 
flinging  the  sand  about  with  the  tips  of  joyous 
fingers,  and  then,  utterly  without  warning,  to  sink 
down  half-way  to  the  top,  moaning  that  she  was 
so  tired  to  death  that  she  couldn't  go  one  single 
step  farther. 

Here  I  was  in  a  fine  mess.  I  was  frankly  terrified 
now,  and  my  terror  was  doubled  when  I  looked 
back  and  saw  the  fog-belt  advancing  upon  us, 
silent,  blind,  insinuating,  eating  up  the  sand  with 
its  soft  and  formless  lips.  I  felt  the  chill  of  it  on 
my  face  already,  and  so  did  Allie,  for  she  looked  up 
from  her  moaning  and  then  began  to  wail  wildly, 
clinging  to  my  ankles. 

"Git  up  outa  there,"  I  bawled  at  her.  I  dragged 
her  to  her  feet  in  a,  panic  and  rushed  her  up  the 
shelving  slope  at  the  point  of  my  shoulder.  She 
must  not  remember  that  she  was  tired. 

"Here's  Helltown,"  I  exclaimed.  Already  she 
had  forgotten. 

"Where?"  she  cried. 

To  be  sure — where?  The  sand  before  us  ran 
down  bare  and  empty  to  the  crinkly  beach  surf, 
and  there,  a  mile  to  the  west,  a  thin  red  ribbon 
wound  into  the  land  where  Race  Run  gave  back 
afterglow  of  sunset.  I  could  even  make  out  the 
tiny,  miserable  hutches  on  its  banks,  half  buried 
by  the  sand,  where  the  winter  fishermen  ate  and 
slept  like  beasts. 

"I  wanta  go  home,"  Allie  was  wailing  into  my 
hand. 


STORM 

"We  goin'  home,  now"  I  gave  her  back,  fiercely, 
turned  and  dragged  her  away  down  the  inland 
slope.  And  then  the  fog  came  up  and  swallowed 
us,  bringing  the  night  forward  an  hour  in  a  hundred 
darkening  seconds.  I  have  never  seen  a  thicker 
pall  on  the  Cape,  I  believe.  Where  a  moment 
before  we  had  had  the  whole  blue  dome  of  the  uni 
verse  above  us,  now  we  trudged  along  a  smothering 
corridor,  with  only  the  thin  whisper  of  the  surf 
behind  to  tell  us  where  we  went.  After  a  little  that, 
too,  had  gone  away,  and  we  were  lost. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  walked  as  one  sometimes 
does  in  a  dream,  going  through  all  the  gestures  of 
progress  and  remaining  always  in  the  same  spot. 
I  was  tormented  by  hopeless  memories  of  the  can 
dles  which  would  be  lit  now  in  the  kitchen  at  my 
father's  house,  and  the  secure  proximity  of  grown 
ups,  and  the  warmth  and  household  confusion. 

I  have  no  idea  how  long  we  wandered.  The  dark 
was  full  of  things  that  scurried  over  the  sand, 
fanned  us  with  noiseless  wings,  and  reached  out 
crackling  fingers  to  pluck  at  our  clothes.  Again 
and  again  that  whispering  surf  came  back  in  front 
of  us — it  seemed  no  matter  where  I  would  turn, 
sooner  or  later  the  water  swung  around  in  front  of 
us — an  insidious,  invisible  horror.  Time  after  time 
Allie  fell  down  and  tried  to  cling  to  the  sand  that 
rained  through  her  fingers,  when  I  pulled  her  up 
and  hustled  her  roughly  on. 

There  came  a  time  when  I  had  to  carry  her.  I 
shall  never  forget  to  the  day  of  my  death  a  certain 
interminable  and  formless  slope  up  which  I  labored 

A  43 


STORM 

with  the  limp  child.  I  had  to  stop  after  every  pair 
of  steps,  and  in  the  silent  intervals  I  could  hear  the 
little  rain  of  sand-streams  flowing  all  about  me  in 
the  sightless  void. 

I  tugged  and  scrambled  and  blubbered.  I  came 
to  the  crest  and  fell  down  in  a  heap.  An  instant 
later  I  was  up  again,  with  that  insistent  impulse 
to  go — to  go — and  keep  on  going.  I  hoisted  my 
pathetic  burden  over  my  shoulder  and  plowed  down 
the  other  slope,  my  ankles  clogged  by  the  powdery 
drifts.  The  sea  was  before  me  again,  but  I  could 
not  turn  another  time.  My  foot  struck  a  solid 
object;  next  I  stumbled  on  a  surface  of  boards  and 
went  cold  and  shaking  at  the  sound  of  a  sleepy 
voice  emerging  from  the  internals  of  the  earth. 

"Get  the  hell  outa  here,"  said  the  voice. 

We  were  on  the  roof  of  a  house — had  stumbled 
down  the  slope  and  out  on  top  of  a  cabin  which 
the  sand  had  almost  buried  on  the  up-hill  side.  All 
the  phantoms  of  darkness,  all  the  dead  men  of  tales 
I  had  heard  whispered  in  Old  Harbor,  walked 
toward  us,  groping  with  their  fleshless  hands.  We 
had  come  to  Helltown  after  all. 

I  ran  away  from  that  hutch  with  all  the  strength 
left  in  me,  came  to  the  edge  of  the  Run  and  fell 
down,  my  little  companion  still  clutched  desperately 
in  my  arms.  Helltown's  dead  men  came  and  went 
in  the  neighborhood — I  could  hear  the  crunching 
of  their  feet  on  the  damp  sand  of  the  shore.  They 
used  to  set  false  lights  here  and  bring  rich  wrecks 
ashore — that  was  how  it  was  whispered  in  Old 
Harbor.  There  must  be  ghosts  of  boats,  then,  for 
I  could  make  out  the  faint  crying  of  oars  on 

44 


STORM 

thole -pins  and  the  cautious  grinding  of  keels  on 
sand. 

The  ghosts  had  voices,  hushed  and  discreet 
voices  such  as  ghosts  should  have. 

"Tobacco?"  asked  one  of  the  whisperers. 

"Yep,"  another  answered. 

"This  way,"  whispered  the  first. 

"And  how  about  the  kegs?" 

"Same  way." 

The  dead  man  of  the  second  voice  passed  above 
me,  spattering  my  half-covered  face  with  sand- 
spray  from  his  boots.  I  felt  that  I  must  look.  We 
crouched  in  a  very  congress  of  black  spirits,  tramp 
ing  here  and  there  in  methodical  patterns.  I  ob 
served  vast  lumps  on  the  backs  of  some,  and  the 
bearers  grunted  in  the  soft  footing,  and  another 
hissed  at  them  to  be  quiet. 

When  one  has  had  to  do  with  fearful  things  for  a 
certain  length  of  time  they  begin  to  lose  the  edge 
of  their  terror.  I  became  curious.  I  sat  up.  From 
far  away,  up  and  down  the  beach,  the  little  lapping 
of  waves  came  to  my  ears,  mingled  with  the  nearer 
movements  of  the  mysterious  gathering. 

And  now  an  extraordinary  thing  happened.  The 
black  figure  who  had  hissed  at  the  others  to  be 
quiet  was  moving  toward  us.  When  he  stood  above 
us  I  saw  him  start,  peer  down  at  us,  and  shake 
his  shadowy  arms  in  a  queer  gesture  of  amazement. 
A  moment  later  my  eyes  were  blinded  by  the  flare 
of  a  match,  and  my  ears  caught  an  exclamation 
and  a  curse. 

I  must  have  been  nearly  out  of  my  senses  then, 
for  wben  the  match  had  gone  and  the  stars  died 

45 


STORM 

out  of  my  eyes  I  have  a  vague  memory  of  sprawling 
on  my  face  in  the  sand  and  groping  for  a  little  Allie 
who  was  no  longer  there,  and  listening,  horrified, 
to  a  furious  splashing  of  sand  making  off  up  the 
dunes  which  was  all  that  remained  of  my  phantom 
of  the  gesturing  elbows.  Then  I  went  under. 

There  was  one  more  mysterious  circumstance  of 
this  night.  I  was  scared  out  of  my  wits  on  the 
banks  of  Race  Run.  And  yet  it  was  upon  our  own 
wharf,  four  miles  and  a  half  across  the  Cape,  that 
my  father  picked  me  up  in  the  early  morning  after 
his  night  of  searching. 


IV 

A   VISITATION    OF   FLESH 

WHEN  the  middle-aged  master  of  an  iron 
cargo-boat  undertakes  to  set  down  some 
of  the  things  that  have  interested  him  in  his  own 
career,  he  is  likely  very  soon  to  find  himself  afoul 
of  trouble  with  the  sailing  instructions  of  the  craft 
of  letters.  Those  wise  men  who  maintain  their 
livelihood  by  making  marks  on  paper,  to  the  end 
that  the  rest  of  the  race  may  laugh,  weep,  or  fall 
into  a  profound  slumber,  have  laid  down  this  rule 
for  the  game:  "It  is  forbidden  to  introduce  into 
the  tale  any  episode  which  has  no  direct  bearing 
upon  the  course  of  the  plot,  or  to  draw  attention 
to  any  character  who  is  not  destined  to  reappear 
at  a  later  point  in  the  narrative."  This,  in  effect, 
is  the  dictum  of  the  man  of  letters. 

But  how  many  episodes,  thrilling,  glowing,  mem 
orable,  has  each  one  not  had  to  enter  his  life, 
without  shaking  it  violently  and  battering  its  nose 
toward  another  point  of  the  compass,  and  how 
many  memories  does  one  not  cherish  of  meteoric 
and  poignant  friendships  which  died  in  the  hour 
of  their  birth? 

Accordingly,  I  find  myself  hard-pressed  to  hit 
upon  any  one  incident  to  signalize  those  years  of 

47 


STORM 

my  life  when  I  was  that  grotesque,  pathetic,  and 
witch-ridden  male  of  the  species  which  may  be 
called  neither  boy  nor  man. 

I  might  set  down  that  I  went  skating  on  the 
Marsh  Ponds  in  winter  and  fished  them  in  summer 
for  a  handful  of  worthless  pickerel  which  I  devoured 
in  conscientious  agony  while  the  rest  of  the  family 
feasted  on  halibut  steak.  But  such  were  the  things 
which  every  youth  that  ever  grew  up  in  Old  Harbor 
did  at  the  proper  time.  And  every  Old  Harbor 
youth  sat,  sooner  or  later,  in  Gabe  Pickert's  sail- 
loft,  and  learned  his  threescore  miraculous  knots 
and  hitches,  navigated  the  flats  on  a  full-rigged 
raft  and  capsized,  stretched  a  wire  for  the  feet  of 
Davie  Pierce,  the  town  crier,  stole  cranberries  off 
the  moonlit  bogs,  figured  largely  at  the  killing  of 
pigs,  and  howled  in  front  of  houses  decorated  for 
the  festival  of  Mene  Jesus. 

I  might  tell  how,  when  my  mother  "counted  ten 
on  me,"  I  invariably  believed  that  this  time  I  was 
old  enough  to  see  her  through  with  it,  and  as  invari 
ably  weakened  at  "six,"  went  to  moral  pieces  at 
"seven,"  and  at  "eight"  ran  away  sullenly  to  do 
her  bidding,  under  the  lash  of  some  vast,  occult, 
and  unthinkable  evil  which  hovered  about  that 
"ten"  I  never  heard. 

I  might  relate  how,  for  weeks  after  my  adventure 
at  Helltown,  I  never  ventured  even  so  far  as  the 
end  of  our  wharf  without  first  reconnoitering  the 
State  Road  from  the  front-room  window  for  the 
fearsome  figure  of  our  rich  man,  coming  out  to 
demand  his  daughter  of  me.  He  crept  up  my 
garret  stairs  in  the  dead  of  night  and  circled  my 

48 


STORM 

cot  with  a  furtive  creaking  of  boards;  he  was 
forever  lurking  behind  dunes  in  the  back  country, 
ready  to  spring  out  and  strangle  the  abductor  of  his 
child.  I  rehearsed  my  defense — the  shadowy  un 
known  of  the  gesturing  elbows — a  hundred  times 
over,  and  then  at  every  rustling  of  leaves  in  the 
woods  or  the  scurrying  of  a  rabbit  over  the  sand 
the  whole  argument  fled  out  of  my  head  and  I  ran 
away  as  tight  as  I  could  go.  Even  after  I  had 
seen  Mr.  Snow  and  Allie  walking  together  up  the 
street  of  the  three  angles  I  was  still  as  wary  as  a 
fox,  and  many  a  foot-passenger  in  an  Old  Harbor 
lane  has  been  startled  by  the  impact  of  a  small, 
wide-eyed  boy  scuttling  out  of  a  certain  aristocrat's 
range  of  vision.  The  mystery  of  the  man  who  ran 
away  at  Helltown,  however,  remained  unsolved. 
He  grew  to  be  a  bugaboo  of  my  nights,  gathered 
to  himself  the  most  monstrous  attributes,  and  it  was 
years  before  I  ceased  to  poke  a  stick  into  the 
shadows  for  him  and  wonder  where  he  could  have 
come  from  and  where  he  could  have  gone. 

I  might  describe  how  I  fell  down  Dedos's  well, 
or  how,  remembering  his  words,  I  beat  a  boy  at 
the  East  End  school  for  calling  me  a  "ginny." 
But  here  I  might  find  myself  again  within  the  letter 
of  the  sailing  instructions.  The  episode  did  surely 
have  a  certain  effect  upon  the  whole  course  of  my 
after  life.  For,  being  carried  away  by  the  lust  of 
battle,  I  came  near  killing  my  antagonist,  who  was 
smaller  than  I,  before  the  combined  strength  of  the 
schoolyard  could  drag  me  away.  Afterward  I  grew 
as  sick  and  weak  as  a  baby  at  sight  of  the  damage 
I  had  wrought,  the  blood  that  smeared  the  little 

49 


STORM 

fellow's  face  and  gurgled  from  an  ear  I  had  torn 
half  off  his  head.  From  that  moment  there  began 
to  grow  up  in  me  a  certain  curious  horror  of  human 
contact,  and  in  its  train  a  distaste  for  human  alter 
cation  which  was  destined  one  day  to  have  a  hand 
in  the  blackest  passage  of  my  life. 

There  was  one  thing  I  did  that  no  Old  Harbor 
youth  within  three  years  of  mine  has  ever  done, 
before  or  since.  That  was  to  lift,  four  inches  clear 
of  the  ground,  the  ancient  frigate's  bell  that  still 
stands  in  front  of  Si  Pinkney's  junk  and  curiosity 
shop. 

For  it  was  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  town  in  those 
days  how  Tony  Manta's  boy  grew.  At  fourteen 
my  head  stood  an  inch  above  my  father's,  and  at 
fifteen  I  tipped  the  scales  in  Sammy  James's  feed- 
store  at  a  hundred  and  seventy  pounds.  In  view 
of  this  amazing  visitation  of  flesh,  it  is  hardly  to  be 
wondered  at  that  I  was  as  gloomy  and  dull  as  any 
goose-fish.  Moreover,  I  was  continually  tormented 
by  an  itching  to  push  things  over,  to  kick  boards 
loose  from  the  wharf,  to  heave  fish-barrels  here 
and  there  without  reason  or  aim,  but  merely  for 
the  feel  of  them  against  my  shoulders.  But  I 
would  never  do  this  when  any  one  was  about  to 
see — my  self-consciousness  was  almost  morbid,  ex 
tending  even  to  a  fear  of  my  mother's  eye. 

My  favorite  resort  at  these  troublous  times  was 
a  sheltered  hollow  behind  the  Cold  Storage  fields. 
On  the  western  side  of  this  depression  the  disposal 
of  roots  and  turf  and  the  "running"  of  a  layer  of 
sand  had  conspired  to  form  an  overhanging  bank, 
some  four  feet  high  from  the  floor  of  the  gully. 

50 


STORM 

Upon  the  verge  of  this  bank  some  unaccountable 
whim  of  nature  had  deposited  a  boulder  which 
would  have  weighed  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  ton, 
I  should  say — the  only  stone  larger  than  a  man's 
head,  so  far  as  I  know,  on  the  lower  reach  of  the 
Cape. 

Now  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  duck  in  there  on  my 
way  down-street  of  an  afternoon,  fit  my  shoulders 
beneath  the  cool,  moist  rock,  and  hunch  and  strain 
and  sweat  for  five  minutes  on  end,  tugging  ex 
quisitely  at  the  lashings  of  muscles  and  wondering 
if  a  day  would  ever  come  when  the  monster  would 
stir  in  its  bed. 

It  came  sooner  than  I  expected.  For  late  one 
summer  afternoon,  when  I  had  been  standing  dou 
bled  up,  heaving  and  grunting  and  dreaming  for 
ten  minutes,  I  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  smoth 
ered  titter  from  the  opposite  rim  of  the  hollow. 
I  was  caught  too  neatly  to  make  a  success  of  getting 
from  beneath  the  rock,  but  out  of  the  tops  of  my 
contorted  eyes  I  saw  something  which  swept  all 
remembrance  of  the  hard  roof  above  me  out  of  my 
mind.  I  was  so  startled  and  abashed  that  my  back 
would  straighten,  boulder  or  no  boulder,  and  the 
next  instant  I  felt  myself  hurled  forward  upon  the 
floor  of  the  gully  amid  a  volley  of  sand,  roots,  and 
pebbles.  By  a  great  stroke  of  fortune  my  rock 
came  down  at  an  angle,  doing  me  no  more  harm 
than  a  badly  pinched  foot  and  ankle. 

The  three  little  girls  whose  appearance  upon  the 
scene  had  brought  all  this  catastrophe  forward 
stood  on  their  toes  and  clutched  their  necks  and 
kept  on  screaming  until  they  discovered  that  I  was 

51 


STORM 

not  killed  after  all.  Then  two  of  them  began  titter 
ing  again  at  the  spectacle  of  me  sitting  there  with 
my  wounded  foot  in  my  hands  and  my  great  dull 
face  going  red  and  white  in  an  agony  of  rage  and 
embarrassment.  But  Allie  Snow  slapped  their 
wriggling  hands,  crying  to  them  could  they  not  see 
the  boy  was  hurt,  at  which  they  left  off  their 
giggling,  looked  guilty,  and  sneaked  off  finally  with 
their  berry-pails  tinkling  against  their  knees. 

Allie  Snow  was  twelve  years  old  now.  As  I  have 
said,  I  had  not  seen  her  since  the  night  of  our 
adventure,  except  for  passing  glimpses,  far  off, 
walking  with  the  gaunt  woman  in  black,  or  upon  a 
town  occasion,  when  she  would  be  in  the  front 
street  with  her  father  and  I  in  a  flutter  of  fear  lest 
his  eye  should  happen  upon  me  before  I  could 
back  out  of  the  crowd,  especially  since  I  had  become 
such  a  great  mark. 

Now  for  the  first  time  I  could  take  stock  of  how 
she  had  changed  in  these  five  years,  and  of  how  she 
had  yet  remained  the  same  in  odd  little  ways. 
She  stood  out  fairly  against  the  background  of 
the  First  Ridge  and  the  luminous  breath  of  the 
summer  mist  hanging  above  it,  gazing  down  at  me 
with  a  compassion  as  cataclismic  as  was  every 
mood  she  knew.  In  that  she  had  not  strayed  a 
shade  from  the  very  little  girl  who  had  passed  from 
rage  to  high  and  flaming  joy  in  a  breath.  Her  hair 
was  darker  than  it  had  been  and  no  longer  curly. 
She  wore  it  parted  on  one  side  and  gathered  in  a 
thick  braid  which  hung  over  one  shoulder  at  this 
moment. 

She  was  a  beautiful  and  radiant  child  when  I  had 

52 


STORM 

seen  her  that  other  time,  but  I  should  have  had 
to  stretch  the  truth  sorely  to  have  called  her  even 
pretty  now,  although  she  had  never  lost  the  char 
acter  of  her  eyes.  Her  arms  and  legs  were  too  long 
for  her  body,  or  perhaps  too  thin  for  themselves; 
her  face  no  longer  bloomed  with  that  exquisite 
breath  of  color  that  had  made  it  once  so  lovely. 
For  Allie  had  come  to  the  years  when  her  kind 
must  forsake  all  beauty  to  come  into  their  heritage 
of  all  beauty.  And  I,  not  understanding  this,  told 
myself  that  she  was  not  growing  up  very  well. 

I  think  there  was  a  certain  obscure  satisfaction 
in  it  for  me  just  at  that  moment,  for  her  compassion 
was  harder  for  me  to  swallow  than  the  giggling  of 
her  mates  had  been.  A  fury  against  her  flared  up 
in  my  dumb  and  unwieldy  spirit;  I  fanned  it  with 
the  cry  that  she  was  shamming,  to  show  off,  and 
when  she  made  as  if  to  slide  down  the  bank  to  be 
in  my  way  with  her  useless  gestures,  I  waved  her 
off  savagely. 

"I  wish  you'd  git  outa  here,"  was  what  I  shouted 
at  her.  As  I  live,  I  believe  that  she  trembled  upon 
the  verge  of  hopping  up  and  down  and  clapping 
her  hands.  If  she  did  have  that  impulse,  she  got 
the  better  of  it  and  shifted  to  a  wounded  air  with 
her  own  bewildering  flash. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  to  get  mad — "  she  flung  at  me. 
Then  she  turned  and  walked  away,  her  head  in  the 
air  so  long  as  I  could  see  it  over  the  rim  of  my  little 
hollow. 

She  did  not  go  far,  though,  for  when  I  had 
gotten  myself  up  and  was  limping  painfully  across 
the  Cold  Storage  fields  I  saw  a  slim  white  figure 

53 


STORM 

half  hidden  in  a  clump  of  willows  at  the  side  of 
Paul  Dyer's  road,  though  I  would  give  no  sign 
that  I  marked  her. 

I  had  a  hard  time  of  it  at  the  little  house.  It 
was  utterly  impossible  to  keep  my  hurt  from  being 
known  for  any  length  of  time.  The  following  morn 
ing  my  foot  was  so  swollen  that  I  kept  it  bundled 
in  a  chair  all  day.  Naturally,  it  must  be  accounted 
for,  and,  since  I  was  so  slow  of  imagination,  they 
had  the  truth  of  the  matter  before  they  were 
through  with  me. 

"H'istin'  stones  you  been,  you?"  my  father 
mused,  with  that  sarcasm  he  had  learned  from  my 
mother.  "H'istin'  stones,  eh?" 

He  stood  before  me  with  his  feet  wide  apart  and 
his  head  to  one  side,  speculating.  I  saw  my  mother 
sitting  at  the  table  behind  him,  and  wondered  why 
the  knife  had  dropped  into  the  basin  of  potatoes 
and  why  her  hands  were  fumbling  with  one  another 
and  her  eyes  staring  at  the  back  of  my  father's 
head  with  such  a  queer,  strained  expression  of 
waiting  in  them. 

"H'istin'  stones,  eh?"  my  father  repeated  once 
more.  "Mnn — I  teenk  eet's  about  time  we  geeve 
you  sometheen  t'  h'ist.  You  seventeen  now — ain't 
eet?  Mike  Kensey  wants  a  man  in  th'  Fortune. 
Mm-m-m — yeh — I  see  Mike  Kensey  t'day." 

My  mother's  hands  went  back  to  the  basin.  She 
took  up  the  knife  and  a  half -peeled  potato,  without 
a  look  toward  me  or  a  word  of  comment,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  I  had  never  known  how  old  she  was 
before.  I  think  she  had  seen  this  day  on  that 
other  day  when  she  lay  in  bed  with  her  first  baby 

54 


STORM 

in  the  curve  of  her  arm,  for  that  is  the  heritage  of 
our  Island  women.  Out  of  seventeen  men,  the  tale 
of  three  generations  in  her  family,  only  five  were 
ever  buried  in  ground,  and  for  the  rest  of  them 
their  women  waited.  And  so,  coming  of  this  race 
of  women  who  had  waited,  my  mother  picked  up 
the  knife  and  the  potato  without  a  look  or  a  word. 


i  "CARRY  THINGS  WITH  A  HIGH  HAND" 

FISHING  in  the  old  Fortune  under  Mike  Ken- 
sey  was  as  hard  a  life  as  a  man  will  want  to 
find.  Ashore,  in  his  stiff  hat  and  broadcloth,  Ken- 
sey  was  rather  a  dapper  little  man,  but  on  the 
grounds  he  was  a  great  "killer,"  an  unmerciful 
"driver,"  and  for  three  years  running  now  the 
"high  liner"  of  the  Old  Harbor  fleet.  Unlike  most 
Irishmen,  he  was  halting  and  indecisive  in  his 
speech;  he  hesitated  even  over  his  oaths,  a  fact 
liable  to  deceive  a  stranger.  But  the  crew  of  the 
Fortune  knew,  and  would  cringe  under  his  faltering 
abuse  even  after  a  twenty-hour  run  of  work  in  a 
freezing  weather. 

Yes,  it  was  a  hard  life.  But  it  had  its  interludes 
of  ease.  On  an  average  of  once  in  ten  days  we 
made  the  city,  tying  up  at  the  old  T  Wharf  to  market 
our  catch  and  take  on  stores  and  ice,  and  then  there 
was  a  day  or  two,  or  sometimes  three,  when  things 
were  slack  and  we  could  go  ashore  and  "see  life." 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  sight  of  the  city. 
Ever  since  we  had  passed  Minot's  Light  in  mid- 
afternoon  its  invisible  hand  had  been  at  work 
around  us,  gathering  in  the  children  of  the  sea  from 
every  point  of  the  compass's  easterly  arc — far- 

56 


STORM 

separated  specks  and  smudges  on  the  ring  of  the 
horizon,  growing  and  closing  in  till,  as  we  ap 
proached  the  mouth  of  the  ship-canal,  we  marched 
along  in  a  troop — here  a  pair  of  mackerel-catchers 
from  the  Maine  coast,  here  a  high-sterned,  wallow 
ing  schooner  piled  to  the  booms  with  southern 
lumber,  here  a  tow  of  dingy  coal-barges,  and  there 
a  luminous  cloud-speck  on  the  sky-line  astern,  a 
full-rigger  with  the  low  sun  on  her  canvas,  come 
from  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

The  sun  went  down  as  we  doubled  the  intricate 
passages  of  the  harbor.  And  then,  before  us  in 
the  west,  a  wonderful  flower  bloomed  in  the  sky — 
the  monstrous,  flaring,  yellow  blossom  of  a  city 
at  night.  I  stood  on  the  forward  deck  and  watched 
it  grow  up  over  our  heads  and  listened  with  a 
wondering  awe  to  the  rising  murmur  of  life  that 
advanced  to  swallow  our  little  ship  noises.  At 
length  we  closed  in  toward  a  forest  of  delicate  black 
masts,  let  our  canvas  run  down,  slapping  and  rat 
tling,  and  with  our  dying  way  nosed  in  between  a 
couple  of  Gloucestermen  alongside  of  T  Wharf, 
under  the  shadow  of  a  black,  man-built  cliff,  pricked 
with  rectangles  of  gas-light.  The  wharf  itself  was 
almost  deserted,  but  beyond  the  gates  flowed  a 
river  of  people — more  people  than  I  had  ever  seen 
at  one  time  before  in  my  life. 

That  evening  I  went  ashore  with  some  of  the 
men  to  a  place  called  "Schlinsky's  up-stairs." 
Never  in  my  life  had  I  seen  anything  so  splendid 
as  "Schlinsky's  up-stairs."  You  must  remember 
that  I  was  a  boy,  and  a  boy  whose  wildest  carousal 
up  to  this  time  had  been  an  occasional  dance  at 


STORM 

St.  Peter's  Hall,  generally  witnessed  through  a 
crack  between  a  curtain  and  sill.  And  here  I  sat 
down  at  a  little  round  table  and  had  my  drink 
brought  to  me  by  a  waiter  in  a  shirt-front,  veritable, 
if  a  trifle  soiled.  Here  I  lolled  back  in  my  chair 
and  watched  with  a  sort  of  rakish  fascination  the 
languid  movements  of  the  wonderfully  painted  "city 
ladies,"  alternately  sullen  and  sparkling  as  they 
drank  the  beer  their  pallid  escorts  bought  for  them. 

Old  Schlinsky  moved  about  among  the  tables 
like  a  greasy,  overfed  spider,  paternally  familiar 
with  the  women,  insinuatingly  jovial  with  the  men, 
a  blotch  of  gray  in  the  garish  pattern,  his  austere, 
uncompromising,  unvarying  comment  on  life,  "an 
eye  for  an  eye,"  at  bizarre  odds  with  his  good 
nature  which  savored  of  the  licking  of  boots. 

I  suppose  it  was  on  account  of  my  bulk  that  one 
of  the  women  nudged  another  and  pointed  me  out, 
not  at  all  covertly.  I  was  eighteen  years  old,  and 
embarrassed  by  their  frank  and  admiring  scrutiny, 
but  when  I  turned  away  my  eyes  I  found  others 
staring  at  me  from  every  corner  of  the  room, 
nudging  and  nodding  at  my  great,  ungainly  figure 
and,  I  have  no  doubt,  my  vacant  countenance. 

Little  John,  my  dory  mate,  poked  his  thumb  in 
Bert  Adams's  ribs  over  this,  and  the  two  fell  to 
joking  at  my  abrupt  popularity.  I  pushed  my 
chair  farther  back  into  the  gloom  of  the  corner, 
abashed  and  supremely  conscious  of  the  screaming 
its  legs  raised  on  the  dusty  floor.  Once  out  of  the 
direct  fire  of  the  room,  however,  I  found  myself 
beginning  to  glow  with  a  certain  warmth  of  com 
fortable  urbanity. 

58 


STORM 

After  all,  why  shouldn't  I?  I  was  young.  Old 
Harbor  was  far  away. 

I  spilled  the  lees  of  my  beer  on  the  floor,  called 
for  a  "whisky  straight,"  and  hitched  my  chair  into 
the  light  once  more.  I  fell  to  staring  at  the  two 
women  in  front  of  me,  but  the  hoped-for  resumption 
of  interest  failed  to  materialize.  Instead,  I  was 
dismayed  to  find  them  staring  over  another  sizable 
man — a  great,  thick-chested,  huge-necked  prodigy 
of  a  man  whose  head  was  crowned  with  a  halo  of 
the  reddest  hair  I  ever  beheld  in  my  life. 

It  was  apparent  that  he  had  just  come  in.  When 
I  saw  him  he  was  already  seated  at  a  table  "up 
front,"  but  the  echo  of  his  scraping  chair  was 
audible  all  about  the  room  in  a  whisper  of  other 
chairs  squeaking  discreetly.  Three  women  were 
already  moving  toward  his  table;  others  turned 
their  heads  to  look  at  him.  Some  called  out  to  him 
familiarly.  He  roared  back  at  them.  Every  motion 
he  made  with  his  hands  or  feet  or  head  gave  me  a 
curious  impression  of  primitive  violence,  of  an  over 
mastering  vitality  and  full-bloodedness.  His  skin  was 
nearly  as  red  as  his  hair — a  monstrous  flame  of  a  man. 

The  instant  he  came  into  the  room  he  was  the 
center  of  it.  He  roared  at  the  waiters,  he  roared 
at  the  women,  scouring  the  place  with  a  romping 
gale  of  good  nature.  He  roared  to  a  girl,  and  she 
jumped  up  and  came  to  his  table  without  so  much 
as  a  glance  at  the  man  who  had  paid  for  her  beer. 

I  remember  saying  to  myself,  "There  is  a  man 
who  can  have  anything  in  the  world  he  asks  for." 
And  it  so  happened  that  that  was  not  the  last  time 
in  my  life  I  was  to  say  that. 

5  59 


STORM 

I  was  filled  with  a  ferocious  gloom.  I  pushed 
my  chair  into  the  shadow  once  more.  Bert  Adams's 
jeering  and  Little  John's  titters  over  my  discom 
fiture  set  me  brooding  bitterly  over  the  sorry  figure 
I  made  beside  that  red-haired  giant — he  roaring, 
magnetic,  vital,  heroic;  I  sluggish,  vacant-faced, 
smothered  by  my  own  inert  vastness. 

The  "whisky  straight"  turned  stale  and  flat. 
The  dusty  waiter  came  and  held  out  his  hand  till 
I  paid  for  my  drinks.  All  the  time  he,  too,  stared 
at  the  red  man.  He  counted  out  my  change 
abstractedly.  One  of  the  quarters  was  bad.  I 
dropped  it  on  the  table  to  make  sure,  and  then  I 
would  have  pocketed  it,  because  I  was  never  one 
for  a  row  in  a  public  place.  But  Bert  Adams  was 
already  plucking  at  the  waiter's  sleeve,  holding  up 
the  bad  coin  and  swearing  at  him.  Old  Schlinsky 
waddled  softly  to  us. 

"Vere'd  you  ged  id?"  he  questioned  the  waiter, 
when  Bert  had  explained  the  trouble.  The  little 
man,  cowed,  hitched  an  elbow  toward  the  red  giant. 

"Garries  dings  mid  a  high  hand — he  does,"  the 
Jew  muttered,  regarding  the  subject  from  under 
his  bushy  brows.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at 
me,  appraised  my  bulk,  pocketed  the  leaden  coin, 
and  shuffled  away  noiselessly,  muttering  his  formula 
of  expiation  through  his  foul  beard. 

Again  and  again  in  later  years  that  scene  has 
come  back  to  me — the  old  Jew's  look  from  the  red 
man  to  me,  and  his  words,  "an  eye  for  an  eye,"  to 
which  the  passing  of  time  has  lent  a  peculiar 
quality. 

That  night  I  carried  back  to  the  vessel  a  flaming 

60 


STORM 

thirst  to  be  like  this  heroic  figure  of  "Schlinsky's 
up-stairs."  Through  the  months  that  followed  I 
set  myself  to  the  task  of  copying  his  exuberant 
gestures,  his  passionate  carelessness.  On  a  thick, 
driving  night,  out  on  the  Channel  grounds,  I  used 
to  stand  up  in  the  bow  of  the  Fortune  and  roar.  I 
rehearsed  scenes  in  which  I  "carried  things  with  a 
high  hand."  But  I  always  did  these  things  when 
nobody  was  about,  and  for  all  that  I  made  myself 
out  a  roistering  swashbuckler,  by  some  inexplicable 
law  of  opposites  I  grew  forever  more  careful,  judi 
cious,  chary  of  speech,  and  deliberate  of  movement. 

Only  once  did  I  throw  off  this  cloak  of  modera 
tion.  It  was  on  a  trip  in  the  early  spring  that  we 
ran  into  a  terribly  heavy  weather  to  the  east  of 
Monumoy.  It  set  in  from  the  northeast  during  the 
night  of  our  run  down,  and  even  while  we  were  at 
the  baiting,  with  the  flames  lying  down  thin  and 
blue  over  the  oil-torches,  we  knew  we  would  not 
go  out  that  morning.  The  lines  were  finished  and 
breakfast  was  in  progress  before  the  expected  word 
came  down  that  the  dories  would  stay  aboard.  By 
ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  the  wind  had  "gone 
back"  into  the  north  and  heightened  to  a  gale. 

We  lay  there  three  days  and  nights  at  an  anchor, 
huddled  together  in  the  steaming,  battering,  tossing 
forecastle.  There  was  fighting.  The  rain  came 
down  in  an  interminable  torrent  abovedecks,  but 
I  clambered  up  and  stood  in  the  flood  now  and 
then,  almost  smothered  by  the  roaring  waters, 
because  it  was  hell  below. 

Occasionally  I  would  make  out  the  skipper 
crawling  from  the  after-companion,  muffled  in  oil- 

61 


STORM 

skins,  to  stand  and  glare  at  the  sky  and  water. 
He  knew  we  ought  to  have  run  back  under  the 
Cape  the  day  we  came  out,  and  he  was  aware  that 
we  knew  it  too.  But  in  that  hesitating  way  of  his 
Mike  Kensey  was  one  of  the  stubbornest  men  I 
ever  knew.  I  believe,  now  he  had  started  to  go 
through  with  it,  he  would  have  seen  the  Fortune 
blown  clear  out  of  the  water  before  he  would  have 
made  a  sign  to  run. 

Most  of  the  time  he  glowered  below  in  his  state 
room  in  a  frightful,  tremulous  rage.  I  am  certain 
he  would  have  done  his  best  to  kill  any  man  who 
had  possessed  the  foolhardiness  to  address  him  in 
the  course  of  those  three  days.  Mazuka,  the  black 
cook,  left  his  meals  in  a  covered  pan  outside  his 
door — that  was  the  nearest  any  one  came  to  personal 
contact  with  the  commander. 

Forward,  matters  were  even  worse.  The  wedge- 
shaped  hole,  only  half  illuminated  by  the  gyrating 
lantern  hung  in  the  center,  rocking,  pitching,  swoon 
ing,  fetched  up  at  intervals  with  an  abrupt,  breath 
less  wriggle,  as  though  it  hesitated  upon  the  brink 
of  some  vast,  black,  and  bottomless  cavern  in  the 
clamorous  outer  world  of  ocean.  It  was  peopled  by 
a  double  crowd  of  nagging  men  and  their  dim  and 
gigantic  shadows,  racing  and  staggering  over  the 
deck  and  bunk-tiers.  All  about,  the  thundering 
drone  of  the  waters  and  winds  reached  back  to  the 
last  circumference  of  space,  and  through  this  boom 
ing  undertone  wound  the  thin  recitative  of  the 
bilge  hissing  over  the  timbers  of  the  Fortune's 
bottom.  Five  men  were  trying  to  play  a  game  of 
cards  far  up  in  the  peak,  snarling  and  biting  at  one 

62 


STORM 

another  and  throwing  their  cards  on  the  table  so 
often  in  loud  disgust  that  the  game  would  never  get 
on.  Abaft  of  them,  along  the  benches,  two  rows 
of  men  faced  across  the  table,  mostly  silent.  Near 
the  foot  of  the  mast  an  old,  white-haired  man  by 
the  name  of  Gabriel  Young  droned  loud,  intermi 
nable,  and  obscene  stories  which  verged  more  and 
more  upon  the  supernatural  and  horrific  as  the 
night  advanced.  Seven  or  eight  figures  lay  prone 
in  as  many  bunks,  some  of  them  with  hands  or 
gray-socked  feet  hanging  over  the  edges — one  of 
them,  Gerald  Duarte,  protruding  his  head  from  the 
shadow  at  intervals  to  scream  at  the  card-players. 

I  lay  on  my  back  in  my  own  bunk,  my  knees 
doubled  up  till  they  touched  the  bed  of  the  bunk 
above,  for  at  eighteen  I  stood  three  inches  over 
six  feet  and  weighed  just  under  two  hundred  and 
forty  pounds.  My  nerves  screamed  in  protest  at 
the  never-ending  drone  of  the  water,  at  the  rasping 
gutturals  of  the  card-party,  at  the  old  man's  unvary 
ing  recitative;  they  jerked  at  every  explosion  from 
Duarte's  bunk  or  at  an  abrupt  clatter  of  Mazuka's 
pans  in  the  galley.  The  forecastle  lantern,  traveling 
forever  in  its  wavering  orbit,  cut  a  circle  of  fire 
in  the  back  of  my  eyes,  and  the  old  itching  for  a 
weight  to  toss  or  something  inert  and  blind  to 
batter  my  shoulder  against  had  hold  of  me. 

I  stared  up  at  the  boarding  above  me  and  seemed 
to  see  that  careless,  fiery  giant  of  "Schlinsky's  up 
stairs,"  and  I  wondered  what  he  would  be  doing  on 
a  night  like  this.  He  would  not  be  whimpering  in 
a  shadow,  of  that  I  could  be  sure.  Nor  would  I. 
With  a  sudden  resolution,  born  of  tattered  nerves, 

63 


STORM 

I  poked  my  head  out  of  the  bunk  and  bawled  at 
the  card-players. 

"Shut  up,  you  damn  loud -mouthed —  Hey, 
d'you  hear  me?  Shut  up." 

This  had  a  surprising  effect  upon  them.  They 
turned  and  stared  at  me  open-mouthed.  Then  they 
looked  at  one  another  with  the  self-conscious  smirks 
of  scolded  boys  and  began  to  whisper,  with  the 
tails  of  their  eyes  on  my  bunk. 

If  they  were  boys  upbraided,  I  was  the  child  in 
astounded  triumph  at  a  first  top-spinning.  I  am 
certain  that  I  blushed,  back  in  the  privacy  of  my 
bunk. 

I  could  do  it  again. 

This  time  it  was  upon  the  old  man  that  I  turned 
my  clamor,  demanding  in  the  name  of  all  the  devils 
that  he  cut  off  his  chatter.  From  an  artistic  point 
of  view  I  am  afraid  I  overdid  it,  but  my  tirade  left 
him  staring  at  me  with  hanging  chin  and  frightened 
eyes. 

The  insistent  crying  of  the  water  had  turned  to 
a  soothing  music.  I  was  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
of  violence.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  wished  to 
go  on  deck  and  bawl  at  the  ocean,  the  waters 
themselves  would  be  silenced  by  the  amazing 
spectacle  of  Tony  Manta's  boy  "carrying  it  with 
a  high  hand."  I  lay  there  in  my  musty  blankets 
as  puffed  up  as  an  emperor,  and  no  one  in  the  fore 
castle  spoke.  I  ran  a  hand  over  the  oblique  slope 
of  one  thigh  and  said  to  myself,  "I'm  a  whopper." 
From  the  corner  of  one  eye  I  saw  old  Gabe  Young 
still  regarding  me,  his  mouth  ajar  in  a  comical 
triangle  of  awe. 

64 


STORM 

Mazuka  shuffled  out  of  the  galley  and,  clinging 
to  the  ladder  with  one  hand,  proceeded  to  wind 
the  nickel  clock.  The  clock  stood  at  a  quarter 
after  three.  The  wind  was  falling.  I  have  seldom 
known  a  wind  to  fall  so  fast.  By  twenty  after 
three  there  was  no  sound  above-decks  except  the 
thin  crackling  of  foam  lines  advancing  across  the 
face  of  the  ocean  and  the  tattoo  of  water  slapping 
at  the  vessel's  sides.  The  rain  had  ceased  with  the 
wind.  For  ten  minutes  more  we  lay  in  this  silence — 
an  oppressive  silence  below-decks — a  vast  whisper 
ing  silence  without.  We  rocked  and  circled  and 
strained  in  this  still  cavern  while  the  nickel  clock 
shifted  its  hands  to  a  quarter  of  four.  The  silence 
was  top-heavy;  it  had  to  be  broken. 

I  heard  a  voice  from  above,  loud  and  impatient. 
I  looked  up  and  saw  the  skipper's  face  framed  in 
the  black  triangle  of  the  companion.  It  was  dis 
torted  almost  beyond  recognition  by  a  spasm  of 
rage.  The  words  which  poured  out  of  his  mouth 
were  idiotic  and  meaningless.  I  have  never  seen 
a  man  with  the  marks  of  a  debauch  so  plain  upon 
him — a  three-day  orgy  of  rage. 

All  the  men  stared  at  him  without  comprehension, 
craning  their  chins  at  the  opening,  so  that  they 
presented  the  spectacle  of  a  company  of  agitated 
Adam's  apples.  Seeing  that  we  did  not  move, 
the  captain  withdrew  his  face,  substituted  his  boots, 
and  came  clattering  down  the  ladder  to  confront 
us,  his  fists  trembling  above  his  head. 

"Get  out — get  out — boats — get  out — damn  you 
— boats — boats — "  He  turned  upon  us  a  stream 
of  disjointed  abuse  that  left  us  breathless  and  be- 

65 


STORM 

wildered.  I,  for  one,  was  sure  that  the  gale  had 
blown  the  wits  out  of  him.  Perhaps  it  had.  At 
any  rate,  he  was  doing  his  best  to  order  us  out 
with  the  dories  to  make  a  set — in  a  sea  that  would 
have  ripped  to  pieces  the  stoutest  trawl  ever 
wound  before  a  dozen  fathoms  had  gone  over  the 
side. 

The  card-players  still  sat  with  their  "hands," 
like  Oriental  fans,  held  rigidly  before  their  chests. 
First  one,  and  then  all  of  them,  turned  and  looked 
at  me,  wide-eyed.  Then  I  understood  what  I  had 
done  when  I  stuck  my  head  out  of  the  bunk  and 
bellowed  at  them.  I  was  "boss"  of  the  forward 
quarters. 

What  would  the  red  man  do?  He  would  do 
something  startling. 

I  doubled  up  like  a  jack-knife  and  crawled 
laboriously  out  of  my  bunk,  sprawled  out  across  the 
lurching  table  amidst  a  grand  crash  of  dishes,  and, 
as  soon  as  I  could  manage  my  feet,  stood  up  before 
the  chattering  skipper.  He  had  not  given  over 
his  tirade  for  an  instant. 

"What  d'you  want?"  I  bawled  at  him. 

He  was  crazy.  He  struck  at  me,  but  I  turned  the 
blow  with  my  elbow.  "What  d'you  want?"  I 
howled  again. 

Now  he  stopped  and  stared  at  me  in  blank 
astonishment.  Mike  Kensey  was  not  used  to  being 
questioned  by  his  men. 

"I  want  you  lazy  devils  to  get — get  the — get  the 
hell  out  o'  here  an' — get  out  an'  make  a  set — set — 
SET!" 

He  chattered  like  a  monkey.    I  turned  my  head 

66 


STORM 

and  eyed  my  mates.  They  were  waiting  for  me  to 
"carry  things  with  a  high  hand"  again. 

"You  go  straight  to  the  devil,"  I  bellowed. 

Kensey's  face  was  white  with  crazy  rage.  He 
commenced  to  pound  at  me,  but  he  could  no  more 
have  harmed  me  than  a  terrier  can  harm  a  brick 
wall.  All  I  knew  was  to  put  my  elbows  in  his  way. 
I  have  no  doubt  I  was  a  sufficiently  sheepish-looking 
hero,  but  the  effect  of  his  own  impotence  upon  the 
skipper  was  startling.  A  hunted  look  came  into  his 
eyes.  A  lurch  of  the  vessel  caught  him  off  his 
balance  and  sent  him  flying  into  an  angle  between 
the  water-butt  and  the  flour-barrel,  from  whence 
he  peered  out  at  me  with  small,  bewildered  eyes, 
under  his  elbow. 

Well,  I  had  done  it.  It  had  been  a  bloodless 
victory,  but  I  had  done  it.  So  far  as  results  went, 
the  red  man  could  have  done  it  no  better. 

There  was  an  air  of  suppressed  exultation  among 
the  men.  The  card-players  threw  their  "hands" 
on  the  table  and  grinned  self-consciously  at  one 
another.  Duarte  hunched  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
bunk  and  slapped  his  thigh  with  a  muttered  "I 
be  damned."  A  year's-old  fetish  had  been  thrown 
down. 

I  looked  at  the  crumpled  man  in  the  corner  and 
thought  of  this.  And  then  I  was  sorry  I  had  done 
it.  I  had  stood  up  there,  a  lumbering,  overgrown 
whelp,  held  my  elbows  awkwardly  in  front  of  me, 
and  let  this  potentate  of  the  coast  fleet,  this  little 
man  who  was  worth  ten  in  a  run  of  fish  or  a  gale 
of  wind,  break  his  fiery  heart  upon  my  senseless 
hulk.  There  was  no  exultation  in  me  now.  I  hated 

67 


STORM 

myself,  and  I  hated  those  gloating  men  about  me 
in  the  hot  quarters.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  was  mad. 

I  turned  on  the  lot  with  a  frightful  oath,  roared 
at  them  to  get  out  on  deck,  and  clambered  up  the 
pitching  ladder  before  any  of  them  could  move. 

The  cold,  quiet  air  outside  stiffened  the  sweat  on 
my  face.  I  glared  out  over  the  heaving  waters, 
streaked  with  whispering  lines  of  spume.  Here  and 
there  beyond  the  rails  a  geyser  shot  up  gray  in 
the  starlight  as  the  vessel  wallowed  into  the  shoul 
der  of  a  swell.  After  a  minute  Little  John  crawled 
out  of  the  forward  companion. 

"Wat  y'  goin'  do,  Zhoe?"  he  asked,  staggering 
with  the  roll  of  the  deck  to  where  I  fumbled  among 
the  trawl-tubs.  I  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"Didn't  you  hear  what  the  ol'  man  said?  Hey? 
We're  goin'  out  an'  make  this  here  set.  Get  that 
gang  out  o'  there — in  a  hurry — hear  me?" 

He  held  up  his  hands,  spread  wide,  in  utter 
amazement.  Then,  seeing  that  I  still  glared  at 
him,  he  stumbled  away  to  the  companion,  one 
white  eye  gleaming  over  his  shoulder  at  me.  In 
a  pause  between  two  waves  I  heard  a  rustle  of 
amazed  protest  below.  I  waited  three  or  four 
minutes,  but  no  one  appeared.  Then  I  went  and 
looked  down  the  hole. 

They  were  all  staring  at  the  aperture.  I  presume 
I  looked  savage.  At  any  rate,  all  of  them  began 
putting  on  their  oil-things  feverishly,  clinging  to 
the  bunks  and  table  with  exaggerated  gestures  of 
insecurity,  as  if  to  protest  in  pantomime  against 
the  violence  of  the  sea. 

68 


STORM 

I  watched  till  the  first  of  them,  Gabe  Young, 
had  his  feet  on  the  ladder.  The  skipper  still  lay 
crumpled  up  in  his  haven  between  the  barrel  and 
the  butt.  Then  I  went  and  stood  over  the  trawl- 
tubs  while  the  whimpering  company  filed  out  of  the 
steaming  hole,  and  saw  that  each  boat's  crew  took 
up  its  gear  and  went  away  to  the  dory-nests. 

There  have  been  so  many  stories  of  that  black 
scene  on  the  deck  of  the  Fortune  that  it  is  hard  for 
me  to  pick  the  truth  out  of  the  jumbled  tradition. 
It  was  an  utterly  insane  project,  as  any  one  in  his 
wits  would  know,  but  I  was  laboring  for  the  lost 
honor  of  Mike  Kensey,  and  had  fallen  heir  to  his 
insanity,  I  suppose.  I  have  only  a  confused  memory 
of  gray  splotches  of  scared  faces  and  fluttering 
hands,  of  them  shifting  here  and  there  to  gather 
in  irresolute  groups  of  defiance  and  scattering  again 
as  I  rushed  them. 

As  I  look  back  upon  it  it  seems  a  miracle  that 
we  ever  got  so  much  as  a  single  dory  over  the  side 
alive  that  morning.  Number  Three  and  Number 
Nine,  both  of  the  starboard  nest,  were  swamped 
and  lost  in  the  launching.  Their  crews  stayed 
aboard  with  the  "spare  hand,"  Dave  White — he  had 
been  one  of  the  card-players.  All  the  rest,  ten  dories 
and  their  crews,  twenty  men,  went  over  the  side, 
and  they  were  all  white  and  chattering  in  the  gray 
of  the  coming  dawn. 

Little  John  and  I  were  the  last  to  go,  whirling 
at  the  ends  of  the  port  falls  over  a  chasm  of  boiling 
black  water  that  clutched  at  the  bottom  of  our 
frail  craft,  sucked  us  into  its  clamorous  belly,  and 
spewed  us  out  in  a  volley  of  spray,  carrying  away 


STORM 

three  feet  of  our  gunwale  on  the  schooner's  side 
and  throwing  both  of  us  flat  in  the  bottom  of  the 
dory.  Then  the  tide  swept  us  clear,  and  the  For 
tune,  cutting  dizzy  circles  on  the  gray  mat  of  the 
sky,  diminished  silently.  The  last  I  saw  of  her 
decks,  Mike  Kensey  was  running  aft  from  the 
forward  companion,  with  his  hands  above  his  head, 
shouting. 


VI 

A   VESSEL   OF  MUTES 

IT  was  beyond  reason  to  try  to  do  anything  with 
the  dory  but  keep  her  head  to  the  seas.  I 
looked  at  my  mate;  he  returned  my  stare  across  the 
shining  thwart,  a  quarter-inch  rim  of  white  around 
the  iris  of  either  eye.  Neither  of  us  had  ever 
seen  a  sea  like  this.  The  whole  face  of  the  world 
shrieked  with  the  torture  of  the  tide-rips,  for  the 
flow  was  setting  strongly  across  the  grounds.  I 
shook  a  thumb  at  the  tubs  of  baited  trawl.  Little 
John  managed  a  ghastly  sort  of  grin.  The  lip  of  a 
wave  slid  over  the  wrecked  gunwale,  setting  all 
our  gear  afloat.  Little  John  fell  to  bailing  mechan 
ically,  while  I  looked  out  to  the  east. 

The  sun  reclined  on  the  sky-line  like  a  florid, 
rotten  melon.  The  Fortune  was  already  three  or 
four  miles  away,  a  writhing  speck  over  the  streaked 
fields.  Only  one  of  the  other  dories  was  visible — 
I  caught  it  on  the  crest  of  a  boiling  hummock  a 
mile  to  the  southward,  once,  and  after  that  did 
not  see  it  again.  The  schooner,  too,  dropped  down 
beyond  the  horizon. 

We  kept  bailing  all  that  morning,  taking  turns 
with  the  little  wooden  scoop,  for  the  sea  was  very 
slow  in  going  down  and  the  wrecked  gunwale  took 

71 


STORM 

in  water  nearly  as  fast  as  we  could  throw  it  out. 
Toward  noon  it  moderated  suddenly,  as  though  a 
vast  and  invisible  hand  had  been  pressed  down 
over  the  ocean. 

It  had  been  cold  the  night  before — now  it  was 
as  hot  as  a  day  in  August.  The  sun  stood  up  in  a 
flawless  sky;  not  a  breath  of  air  moved;  the  flat 
tened  water  became  another  bowl  of  sky,  and  anoth 
er  yellow  sun  burned  in  its  zenith;  and  we,  floating 
midway  between  the  two  fires,  broiled  in  the  double 
radiance. 

"I'll  row  to  d'  west'rd,"  Little  John  said,  putting 
out  the  bow  oars.  "Debbil — heem  hot  day.  I 
tek  a  dreenk  firs'."  He  reached  over  for  the  water- 
braker,  hoisted  it  over  his  face,  then  let  it  crash 
in  the  bottom  with  a  curse.  "Debbil  —  heem 
salt!" 

At  first  I  could  scarcely  realize  this  price  of  a 
carelessly  tamped  bung,  battered  about  in  a  half- 
cargo  of  sea- water. 

"We'll  make  Chatham  to-morrow,"  I  cheered 
Little  John.  "We  can  get  all  the  water  we  want 
there." 

And  then,  by  some  occult  process  of  suggestion, 
my  mouth  began  to  parch  like  dusty  leather.  I 
argued  with  myself  that  it  was  impossible  I  should 
be  thirsty  so  soon;  that  if  there  were  fresh  water 
in  the  braker  I  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  reach 
for  it;  but  the  very  absence  of  water  in  that 
redundance  of  water  ate  at  my  throat  like  an  insidi 
ous  flame. 

Toward  nightfall  I  cut  off  a  length  of  baited 
trawl,  hove  it  over  the  side,  and  managed  to  hook 

72 


STORM 

a  pair  of  haddock  which  we  slashed  open  and 
sucked  greedily.  But  the  salt  was  even  there,  and 
our  paltry  mouthfuls  of  moisture  were  but  fuel  to 
the  flame. 

Then  a  breeze  came  from  the  east,  spreading  a 
film  of  darker  blue  over  the  water  before  it.  It 
fanned  our  faces  and  added  its  soft  weight  to  our 
progress :  it  cheered  us  to  new  efforts  over  the  oars. 

"We'll  be  there  by  sun-up,"  I  called  over  my 
shoulder. 

But  another  hour  and  we  saw  the  "easterly" 
haze  drain  out  of  the  air  and  watched  it  shift  by 
little  puffs  and  flurries  into  the  southeast  and  then 
into  the  south,  where  it  died.  We  pulled  for  two 
hours  in  the  gathering  night  before  it  broke  again, 
this  time  from  the  northeast. 

It  struck  us  heavily — a  gale  in  full  violence — cold, 
clear,  dry,  pitiless.  All  through  that  night  we 
crouched  in  the  swirling  bottom  of  the  boat,  Little 
John  baling  and  I  laboring  to  keep  her  head  to  it 
with  the  oars.  When  the  sun  came  up  at  last  it 
found  me  almost  dead  with  cold  and  exhaustion, 
dragging  mechanically  at  the  one  remaining  oar 
fixed  in  the  stern  lock  (three  had  broken  in  the 
night),  and  Little  John  lying  half  in  and  half  out 
of  the  wash  in  the  dory's  bottom. 

He  began  to  talk  queerly  as  the  forenoon  ad 
vanced.  Now  and  then  I  heard  fragments  of  old 
Portuguese  child-songs  whistling  across  his  dry  lips. 
The  warmth  of  the  day  had  a  strange  effect  upon 
me,  melting  me  down  into  a  state  of  dull  exaltation. 
For  the  first  time  I  forgot  the  look  of  those  gray, 
chattering  men  I  had  driven  over  the  Fortune's  side 

73 


STORM 

when  I  was  mad.  I  did  not  remember  that  I  was 
thirsty  till  another  evening  crept  over  the  eastern 
rim  of  the  waters. 

The  night  was  cold  again,  but  calm  and  misty. 
Little  John  talked  all  that  night  and  the  following 
day.  His  mind  ran  on  the  mountains — those 
"mounteens"  he  had  never  seen.  He  was  a  curious 
little  fellow,  with  a  wrinkled,  weazened  face  that 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  shut  in  a  box  when 
small  and  not  allowed  to  grow.  Perhaps  something 
of  the  kind  had  happened  to  his  whole  being. 
Little  John  had  married  too  young.  I  had  often 
heard  him  making  fantastic  plans  for  running  away 
to  his  "mounteens,"  and  listened  to  his  quaint 
conception  of  what  those  outlandish  regions  must 
be  like.  He  pictured  the  mountains  as  huge,  geo 
metrical  blocks,  somewhat  like  the  buildings  of  a 
monstrous  and  unpopulated  city,  with  streams  of 
cool,  fresh  water  trickling  through  every  street. 
He  chattered  much  of  these  fresh  streams  in  the 
square  shadows  now,  in  his  delirium.  His  words 
drove  me  into  a  rage.  I  struck  him  on  the  head 
once  with  the  oar,  and  he  lay  quiet  for  half  an 
hour  before  he  commenced  to  sing  again.  I  had 
interludes  of  blubbering  and  maudlin  pity  for  the 
mates  I  had  sent  away  to  black  deaths,  when  I 
would  mumble  weakly  at  my  own  crimes. 

Of  what  happened  the  next  night  and  the  day 
after  I  have  no  memory.  It  must  have  been  in 
the  night  that  followed  that  another  storm  came 
up — a  terrific,  squally  weather,  with  lightning  and 
floods  of  rain.  The  water  was  good — I  can  never 
remember  anything  as  good  as  that  water.  Having 

74 


STORM 

sucked  my  fill  out  of  the  drenched  air,  I  was  ready 
to  die.  I  had  no  care  now  what  should  happen. 
I  suppose  that  each  succeeding  flash  of  lightning 
roused  me  afresh  from  my  lethargy,  for  I  have  a 
recollection  only  of  a  continuous  glare  of  white, 
illuminating  an  expanse  of  prickly  sea,  writhing 
under  the  rain. 

I  saw  a  steamer — a  long  black  craft  with  a  broken 
nose — belching  a  column  of  distracted  smoke  from 
her  funnel,  almost  flush  with  the  water  amidships 
and  wallowing  her  rails  under  at  every  roll.  Men 
swarmed  in  strange  attitudes  over  her  deck,  pitch 
ing  stinking  fish  into  the  sea — the  stench  of  them 
came  to  me  through  the  tormented  air. 

I  saw  one  of  the  men  give  over  his  antics  and 
gesture  in  my  direction,  and  others  gathering  about 
him.  I  saw  a  boat  bearing  down  upon  me  at  an 
incredible  speed  (you  must  remember  that  widely 
separated  seconds  were  all  run  together  in  my  con 
sciousness,  as  though,  in  a  modern  moving-picture 
film,  nine  out  of  every  ten  pictures  were  cut  out 
and  the  remainder  run  through  rapidly).  I  had  a 
dim  impression  of  the  dory  slopping  to  the  rails 
with  water,  and  Little  John's  limp  arms  washing 
with  it.  Then  my  lethargy  shut  down  and  I  knew 
no  more. 

My  next  recollection  is  of  lifting  a  heavy  head 
and  staring  up  a  sloping,  white  washed  wall,  stand 
ing  across  from  me.  The  wall  was  pierced  at  regular 
intervals  by  tiers  of  rectangular  holes.  Within  the 
lower  ones  I  could  make  out  the  prostrate  figures 
of  men.  Damp  oil-clothing  lay  about  the  floor  and 
a  smoky  lamp  swung  over  my  head  in  the  center 

6  75 


STORM 

of  the  triangular  ceiling,  although  it  was  broad  day. 
The  whole  swayed  and  shivered  with  the  unmis 
takable  motion  of  a  vessel  at  sea. 

After  a  time  three  men  came  down  a  ladder. 
They  were  all  of  a  type,  thick-chested,  broad-shoul 
dered,  clothed  above  the  waist  only  in  thin,  sleeve 
less  shirts,  and  wearing  long- vizored,  black  caps  on 
their  heads. 

I  had  seen  them  so  in  Old  Harbor — these  porgie- 
steamer  men.  Many  and  many  a  time  in  my  child 
hood  my  mother  had  scared  me  into  sullen  obedi 
ence  with  the  threat,  "D'  Black  Caps  '11  git  y'," 
just  as  she  had  accelerated  my  bedward  path  with 
the  prophecy  that  "Pa-Jim"  would  catch  a  slow 
boy. 

For  in  my  day  they  came  ashore,  those  broad 
men  from  the  provinces,  thirsty  in  every  way  that 
a  man  long  at  sea  may  be  thirsty,  and  there  was  no 
law  or  authority  in  our  fringe  of  sea-town  to  hold 
them.  When  Old  Harbor  people — the  respectable, 
peace-loving  sort — made  out  a  pall  of  smoke  on 
the  sky-line  and  saw  the  long,  black  steamers  run 
ning  in  under  it,  they  knew  it  was  time  to  put  up 
their  shutters,  lock  their  doors,  and  stay  behind 
them.  They  filled  the  town  and  rattled  the  win 
dows  of  the  winding  alleys  with  their  brawling  and 
fighting.  In  my  day  there  were  a  dozen  Old  Harbor 
men  who  showed  the  marks  of  their  violence,  and 
a  score  of  girls  whose  babies  had  no  fathers — 
"po'gie  brats." 

I  looked  at  the  three  who  had  just  come  down. 
They  seemed  to  bear  no  marks  of  a  special  turbu 
lence  or  malignitv  beyond  ordinary  men.  They 

76 


STORM 

were  silent,  it  is  true,  and  gloomy,  but  it  was  not 
the  silence  or  gloom  of  truculence;  it  was  some 
thing  fearsome  and  oppressive.  They  threw  them 
selves  in  bunks  without  a  word  to  one  another  or 
a  glance  in  my  direction.  Others  came  down  after 
a  while,  and  some  of  those  in  the  bunks  got  up  and 
went  on  deck,  but  all  of  them  moved  in  this  same 
brooding  hush  that  lay  over  the  vessel  like  the 
shadow  of  death.  Even  the  black  cook,  when  he 
shuffled  down  with  a  platter  of  soup  for  me,  had  a 
look  of  one  seeing  wraiths  in  the  night,  and  when 
I  asked  where  we  were  bound  he  regarded  me  fear 
fully,  his  eyes  showing  triangles  of  white,  and 
mumbled  only  one  word,  "Paradise." 

So  we  were  going  to  Paradise  then,  that  fabulous 
fountain  of  horrors  from  whence  the  porgie- 
steamers  came  to  harry  us.  For  at  Paradise  were 
the  factories  where  their  stinking  cargoes  were 
turned  into  fine  oil  and  fertilizer.  I  had  heard 
much  of  the  place.  I  wondered  what  they  would 
ask  me  there. 

And  what  would  I  answer  them?  That  was  the 
question  which  had  tortured  me  for  hours.  Twenty 
chattering  men  had  gone  over  the  side  of  the 
Fortune  that  morning,  and  it  was  I  who  had  driven 
them.  Two  had  been  saved  by  a  miracle  of  fortune. 
Two  miracles  I  could  imagine — three,  or  perhaps 
four,  miracles  might  have  been  barely  possible 
among  the  dramatic  chances  of  the  sea — but  six 
or  seven  or  eight  or  nine  of  those  dories  had  gone 
down  with  crews  in  them  during  those  days  and 
nights  of  storm.  I  lay  there  staring  straight  above 
me  and  fought  it  out  with  all  the  laws  of  nature, 

77 


STORM 

but  I  could  never  by  any  agony  of  optimism  bring 
more  than  eight  of  those  mates  of  mine  ashore. 
The  others  I  had  murdered,  "carrying  things  with 
a  high  hand." 

I  could  never  go  back  to  Old  Harbor,  that  was 
certain.  It  was  a  fearful  load  that  smothered  a 
boy  of  eighteen,  lying  in  a  bunk  of  a  porgie-boat 
forecastle,  bound  for  Paradise  and  Hell.  The  after 
noon  light  streamed  through  a  pane  of  the  skylight 
overhead — cheery,  tingling  with  the  glory  of  spring 
— but  to  me  it  seemed  a  sinister  finger  of  flame 
searching  for  a  culprit. 

A  portly  man  came  slowly  down  the  ladder. 
Some  atmosphere  of  authority  about  him  made  me 
sure  it  was  the  captain  of  the  vessel.  He  was  coming 
to  question  us.  What  should  I  tell  him?  I  was  in 
a  panic.  But  he  stopped  at  another  bunk  and 
inserted  his  head.  Evidently  Little  John  had  come 
around  too,  though  I  had  not  heard  a  word  of  him 
since  I  woke.  I  heard  the  master  ask  in  a  subdued 
voice,  of  a  quality  with  the  muteness  of  the  whole 
ship,  "Are  you  off  a  fisherman?" 

I  could  not  make  out  Little  John's  reply,  but 
the  echo  of  it  in  the  master's  words  left  me  bewil 
dered. 

' '  Smuggling,  you  say — into  Chatham  ?  M-m-m— 

He  did  not  pursue  the  matter  further,  but  stepped 
over  and  glanced  at  me  and  then  went  away,  all 
this  time  with  an  air  of  moody  preoccupation  that 
seemed  to  preside  over  this  company  of  mutes. 
But  the  thing  that  mystified  me  was  that  evasion 
of  my  mate's.  I  was  to  have  no  light  upon  the 
matter  till  evening,  when  we  stood  on  the  forward 

78 


STORM 

deck  and  watched  the  night  come  down  over  the 
sea. 

"What  you  so  anxious  to  get  out  of  sight  for, 
Little  John?"  I  put  the  question  after  a  long 
silence. 

He  had  been  staring  across  the  water  at  some 
thing  a  thousand  miles  away,  by  the  focus  of  his 
eyes.  At  my  words  he  turned  with  an  expression 
of  sudden  stealth  and  craftiness. 

"You  know  my  wife — " 

I  nodded,  though  it  was  not  a  question. 

"You  know  'er  mudder — " 

I  nodded  again,  wondering  if  the  toils  of  some 
furtive  intrigue  of  his  were  closing  about  these  two 
unfortunate  women.  Perhaps  the  blow  had  fallen 
even  now. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  squatting  almost  to 
the  deck  with  the  intensity  of  his  discretion, 
" — you  know,  dey'd  raise  debbil-hell  if  dey  knowd 
I  was  goeen  t'  d'  mounteens — now — sure,  Zhoc — 
I  been  goeen — now.  Nobody  don'  know  but  we 
been  dead,  now — eh,  Zhoe?" 

"That's  right,"  I  answered  him.  "I'm  go 
ing,  too." 

A  slow  breeze  came  from  the  southeast,  ahead, 
giving  us  clean  air  to  breath,  and  blowing  astern 
the  horrible  breath  of  the  cargo  rotting  amidships. 
By  and  by  we  saw  a  star  come  into  life,  low  down 
on  the  southern  horizon.  A  cluster  of  satellites 
grew  up  about  it.  Five  minutes  later  we  passed  a 
ghostly  buoy  on  the  port  side,  and  immediately  the 
vessel's  head  swung  round  toward  the  waxing  con 
stellation.  A  fixed  red  light  burned  on  the  star- 

79 


STORM 

board  hand.  To  the  left  I  made  out  the  low,  gray 
line  of  a  sand-spit.  We  were  in  an  estuary. 

I  glanced  at  my  mate.  He  was  sniffing  at  the 
breeze  like  a  hunting-dog  on  a  cooling  trail.  I  had 
smelled  something,  too — a  faint  pollution  of  the 
wind,  coming  over  us  like  the  exhalation  of  a  vast 
and  far-away  pestilence. 

The  lights  ahead  expanded  and  came  toward  us. 
The  fetor  grew  by  imperceptible  accretions,  until 
it  seemed  that  the  very  atmosphere  rotted,  crum 
bled  into  a  myriad  granules  of  corruption,  weighed 
us  down  with  its  cloying  stench,  and  left  its 
putrid  silt  on  the  linings  of  our  lungs  and  nos 
trils. 

A  monstrous  black  creature  moved  toward  us 
over  the  shining  water,  broke  up  as  it  came  abreast 
into  a  tow  of  two  barges  wallowing  in  the  wake  of  a 
hiccoughing  tug.  They  passed  us  with  a  breath  of 
horrible  death.  When  my  eyes  went  ahead  once 
more,  we  were  shouldering  alongside  of  a  vessel  at 
dock  under  a  towering,  shadowy  structure — a  gaunt, 
high,  blank,  black  building,  with  one  skeleton  arm 
that  jabbed  at  the  vitals  of  our  neighbor. 

The  arm  creaked,  it  writhed;  an  endless  chain 
ran  up  its  iron  profile;  hundreds  of  buckets,  like 
teeth,  tore  at  the  ghastly  burden  and  carried  it 
aloft  in  horrible,  dripping  fragments. 

I  looked  down  into  the  hold.  It  was  illuminated 
by  half  a  dozen  lanterns,  pouring  their  smoky 
radiance  over  figures  that  writhed  and  heaved  and 
stuck  forks  into  the  festering  mass — demons  in  hell, 
if  ever  I  saw  them.  It  was  a  moment  before  I 
could  realize  that  these  were  the  forms  of  men. 

80 


STORM 

Their  heads  and  shoulders  were  swathed  in  gunny- 
bags,  upon  which  fell  the  rotten  rain. 

The  thing  exercised  a  terrible  fascination  over 
me.  I  looked  away  at  the  dock  and  the  oil-factory, 
black,  desolate,  dusty,  with  lanes  of  little  lights 
leading  back  into  further  labyrinths  of  horror. 
I  saw  a  long,  shed-like  structure  squatting  beside 
a  stagnant  back-water,  with  a  lighted  "store"  in 
one  end  of  it  and  the  green  of  a  pool-table  showing 
through  an  open  door.  In  the  dark,  behind  a  fer 
tilizer-factory,  a  toy  engine  dumped  its  toy  cars 
into  an  invisible  barge  beside  an  invisible  dock. 
Inevitably  my  eyes  came  back  to  the  pit  below. 

A  man  with  a  sack  over  his  head  stood  on  the 
deck  above  the  creatures  in  the  pit,  directing  their 
heavings  with  powerful  gestures  and  bellowed 
words.  He  swore  tremendously  and  shook  his  fists, 
shifted  his  footing  like  a  fighter  in  the  ring,  raised 
his  hands  over  his  head  and  clutched  at  the  air 
with  an  exuberant  violence  that  shook  me  strangely. 
For  an  instant  I  struggled  with  a  memory  which  I 
could  not  remember.  The  hands  he  raised  over 
his  head  were  red.  He  turned  toward  us,  and  the 
face  within  the  burlap  was  red  as  fire.  It  was  the 
man  of  "Schlinsky's  up-stairs"! 

"Where  yoo  been?"  he  roared  to  our  captain, 
invisible  on  the  bridge  above  our  heads.  The  cap 
tain  did  not  answer  the  boisterous  question,  but 
asked  another,  with  that  austere  brevity  that  had 
bothered  me. 

"When '11  yoo  be  out?" 

"Fufteen  minutes,"  the  other  bellowed  back. 
"We  arre  boond  for  Gold  Haarbor." 

81 


STORM 

"Come  aboard,  Jock,  I  want  to  see  yoo."  The 
captain  had  spoken  with  more  fervor  than  before. 
Of  a  sudden  I  felt  that  all  the  lights  on  board  were 
turned  upon  me,  and  ducked  behind  the  deck 
house  with  the  heart  hammering  against  the  walls 
of  my  chest.  The  soul  of  a  fugitive  had  come  into 
me  already. 

"Did  you  hear  what  he  said?"  I  asked,  when  my 
mate  had  followed  me,  wondering.  "He's  goin' 
home— to  Old  Harbor,  John." 

"Let  'eem  go."  The  volatile  little  fellow  had 
already  taken  on  the  audacity  of  the  hardened 
vagabond.  "I  been  damn  far  gone  w'en  dey 
fin'  out  nuttin'." 

"But  they'll  know  about  me"  I  insisted.  It 
was  horrible  to  think  of  cold,  hostile,  and  knowing 
eyes  following  me  across  oceans  and  continents, 
forever,  till  the  day  of  my  death  in  some  obscure 
corner  of  exile.  This  red  man  would  hear  of  dories 
lost  in  Old  Harbor — he  had  seen  a  little  man  and 
a  huge,  hulking  youth  picked  up  from  a  dory — he 
would  put  two  and  two  together,  inevitably. 

I  watched  the  great  man  come  aboard  and  dis 
appear  into  the  men's  quarters  forward,  heard  his 
jovial  hail,  unanswered  from  below.  Then  I  was 
in  a  sweat  to  get  off  the  vessel  and  into  the  dark 
ramifications  of  the  dock-works  before  this  carrier 
of  tidings  should  lay  eyes  upon  us  again.  I  had  no 
thought  of  farewells  or  the  amenities  of  gratitude; 
I  wanted  only  to  get  away. 

"Come  on,"  I  muttered  to  Little  John,  and  made 
a  dash  of  it,  dragging  the  bewildered  fellow  over 
the  lighted  rail  and  across  the  reeking  deck  of 


STORM 

our  neighbor,  over  another  rail  and  into  the  stinking 
but  welcome  shadow  of  the  elevator.  I  have  often 
thought  since  then  that  I  managed  badly  in  my 
efforts  for  obscurity,  but  a  man  in  a  panic  is  never 
a  good  general. 

"Now  for  solid  ground,"  I  whispered  to  Little 
John. 

But  we  were  destined  to  long  windings  before 
we  found  it.  The  passage  into  which  we  had  blun 
dered  led  us  away  through  zones  of  light  and  dark, 
past  mouths  of  latticework  that  breathed  pesti 
lence  across  our  path,  past  glowing  doors  with  gigan 
tic  engines  wheezing  and  clanking  beyond  them: 
we  doubled  corners  and  crawled  through  covered 
passages,  and  came  to  a  blank  wall.  Then  we 
retraced  our  steps  and  tried  it  again,  and  came  in 
the  end  to  another  blank  wall.  It  grew  to  be  a 
nightmare — a  nightmare  of  grindings  and  noisome 
dust  and  twinkling  lights  and  blind  ways  from 
which  we  struggled  to  free  ourselves  and  struggled 
in  vain.  We  were  running  blind  now,  and  so  we 
debouched  from  a  passage  and  brought  up  in  the 
full  glare  of  the  dockside  from  which  we  had 
started  fifteen  minutes  before.  And  there  was  the 
red  giant  coming  over  the  rail  of  his  vessel,  not 
ten  feet  away.  He  was  almost  as  startled  as  we 
at  this  abrupt  encounter. 

"I  say — yoo  arre  a  big  un,"  he  rumbled,  staring 
at  me.  "Where  'd  yoo  come  from?"  I  was  so 
taken  aback  that  I  could  only  nod  my  head  toward 
the  steamer.  At  that  he  seemed  more  than  ever 
astonished,  whirled  his  thick  arms  and  slapped 
his  thighs  in  amazement,  and  I  remember  thinking 

83 


STORM 

that  he  would  be  the  better  for  a  blood-letting.  I 
have  never  seen  a  man  with  such  a  burden  of  energy. 
It  seemed  forever  upon  the  point  of  bursting  the 
barriers  of  flesh  if  he  did  not  give  it  some  violent 
outlet. 

"On  the  Bette  Isle?"  he  bellowed.  "They  told 
me  they  didn't  pick  oop  anyboody."  He  struck  off 
his  cap  with  a  blow  of  one  great  hand,  and  ran  the 
fingers  of  the  other  through  the  flaming  mop  of 
hair. 

"Look  'ere,"  he  rumbled,  in  a  tone  of  discretion 
which  an  ordinary  man  would  have  used  for  public- 
speaking,  "I'm  mate  aboord  th'  Bangor  'ere,  an' 
we  arre  goin'  oop  to  Oold  Haarbor  now,  an'  we  can 
poot  yoo  back  there  without  trouble." 

I  felt  my  eyes  growing  as  round  as  marbles,  and 
a  sinking  sensation  within.  What  could  this  fellow 
know  of  us — in  the  name  of  all  the  devils,  by  what 
mysterious  and  occult  vision  could  he  see  the  name 
of  our  port  written  across  us  as  the  eye  of  ordinary 
man  reads  it  on  the  side  of  a  passing  vessel?  I 
could  only  gawk  at  him  and  shake  my  head.  He 
appeared  perplexed. 

"What's  th'  matter,  lad?  Yoo  hov  got  somethin' 
against  Oold  Haarbor — I  see  ut  in  yoor  face — well 
enough." 

My  face  was  blank  enough  to  read  almost  any 
thing  there.  I  was  conscious  that  he  watched  me 
closely,  his  shaggy  head  bent  down  and  only  the 
tops  of  his  eyes  showing.  I  had  nothing  to  say, 
and  for  once  in  my  life  vacancy  blurted  out  the 
right  retort.  "They's  somebody  in  Old  Harbor  I 
don't  want  to  see." 

84 


STORM 

At  this  his  face  lost  its  look  of  heavy  cunning, 
which  became  it  little,  and  he  burst  forth  in  a 
monstrous  guffaw.  Here  was  a  matter  the  man 
could  grasp — a  personal  affair — perhaps  a  fight. 

"'Bout  a  gurl?"  he  suggested,  hopefully.  I 
plunged  into  the  opening  presented. 

"M-m-huh,"  I  nodded. 

I  have  never  seen  a  man  of  such  monstrous 
enthusiasms.  He  rocked  on  his  great  legs  at  the 
mere  suggestion  of  a  romance  adorned  with 
battle. 

"An5  this  'ere  chap  yoo  was — " 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him  yet,"  I  broke  in — "not 
yet.  I  don't  want  him  to  know  where  I  am;  he 
thinks  I'm  dead.  I'm  goin'  to  give  'im  a  su'prise — 
see?"  Here  I  managed  a  portentous  wink. 

The  man  heaved  with  delight.  "Can  I  take  9er 
a  word  maybee?" 

"Nope — er — hold  on  a  minute — "  I  was  struck 
with  a  sudden  solution  to  a  problem  which  had 
troubled  me  all  the  afternoon.  "Er — yep — I  guess 
you  can.  Got  a  paper?" 

He  handed  me  an  old  envelope  and  a  stub  of 
pencil.  Tearing  off  the  name,  I  scrawled  a  note  to 
my  mother,  telling  her  I  was  all  right  and  asking 
her  not  to  say  a  word  of  it  to  any  one  in  the  world 
but  my  father,  for  reasons  I  would  tell  them  later. 
On  the  back  I  wrote  her  name,  folded  the  bit  of 
paper  twice,  and  gave  it  to  the  man.  Even  with 
my  blunt  wit,  I  knew  he  would  not  open  it. 

"Give  it  to  that  woman,"  I  said.  "She  knows 
all  about  it." 

"I  wull  thot,  lad." 

85 


STORM 

I  would  have  gone  then,  but  he  held  me  back 
for  a  portentous  announcement. 

"I'm  good  at  sooch  things,  lad.  I  know  women. 
I  was  in  Gold  Haarbor  oonly  once — last  year  just 
after  I  joined  on — an'  I  got  a  gurl  there  already." 
He  held  me  off  at  the  length  of  his  thick  arm  to 
observe  the  effect  of  this  information. 

"  Yoo'd  never  see  'er,  lad,"  he  went  on  bellowing. 
"Ugh-ugh.  Yoo'd  look  over  'er,  an'  on  to  soome 
fat,  pink  slut  thot  th'  street  ain't  big  enoof  for.  An' 
thot's  beecause  yoo  hov  not  seen  so  manny  women 
as  Jock  Crimson  has  seen.  Lithe  as  a  buddin' 
willow,  this  un  is;  eyes  like  the  shine  o'  herrin' — 
cheeks  to  kiss — aye,  an'  lips — an'  hair  to  run  a 
mon's  fing'rs  through.  Aye,  lad,  a  gurl  to  mate 
Jock  Crimson  to — an'  Jock  Crimson  wull  mate  to 
'er,  sure's  ever  he  was  born  in  County  Corn'll." 

And  now  he  had  me  wondering  in  good  truth. 
I  had  lived  in  Old  Harbor  all  my  life:  there  was 
not  a  twisting  lane  in  all  its  length  I  had  not 
threaded  a  score  of  times;  and  yet  it  was  certain 
my  eyes  had  never  fallen  upon  this  being  of  the 
red  man's  boisterous  panegyric.  I  remembered 
there  had  been  some  little  fighting  in  the  back- 
streets  over  a  certain  Mamie  Sousa  the  summer 
before,  but  she  was  large-bosomed  and  florid- 
cheeked.  Then  there  was  Bert  Adams's  sister, 
Flossie.  And  Little  John's  sister  was  pretty.  She 
was  only  fourteen,  it  is  true,  but  tall  for  her  years. 
I  decided  that  it  must  be  Annie  Miers.  I  wondered 
whether  I  ought  to  say  anything  to  Little  John, 
but  he  was  already  backing  away  into  the  shadow, 
and  I  very  anxious  to  be  after  him. 


STORM 

"I've  got  to  be  goin',"  I  told  the  man. 

But  still  he  held  me  back.  As  I  came  to  know 
later,  Jock  Crimson  loved  a  big  man,  just  as  he 
loved  a  monstrous  rage  or  a  stupendous  fight.  He 
was  appraising  my  back  muscles  with  his  fingers 
and  grinning. 

"Not  too  well  filled  yet,"  he  mused.  "How  old 
arre  ye,  lad?" 

"Eighteen." 

"A  boy  yet.  Give  ye  another  five  year,  an' 
lad — wouldn't  yoo  an'  me  make  a  pair  with  th' 
fisties?  Wouldn't  we  thot,  lad?" 

I  muttered  something  about  hoping  that  such 
a  thing  would  never  have  reason  to  be. 

"Yoo  hov  no  money,  lad.  Just  remember  my 
name — Jock  Crimson — "  He  had  stuck  a  bill  into 
my  hand  before  I  knew  it  and  hoisted  his  bulk 
over  the  rail  of  the  Bangor  without  giving  me  a 
chance  to  reply.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  follow 
Little  John  into  the  shadows.  Once  I  looked  back 
and  beheld  the  red  man  standing  under  the  flare 
of  a  lantern  on  deck.  He  waved  a  hand  at  us,  and 
in  that  gesture  was  all  the  good  will  of  his  huge, 
full-blooded,  and  full-passioned  self. 

Years  afterward  I  thought  of  him  so,  bidding  two 
vagabonds  God-speed- 


VII 

A   NIGHT   LANDING 

TKK  next  four  years  of  my  life,  full  as  they 
were  of  wandering  over  the  earth,  of  the 
prescriptive  adventure  of  the  seafaring  way,  and 
of  that  inevitable  growth  and  culture  which  comes 
of  mixing  with  many  men,  will  have  to  remain  a 
blank  so  far  as  this  narrative  is  concerned.  I  was 
upon  the  point  of  saying  that  those  years  would 
make  a  book  in  themselves,  but  it  is  no  more  true 
of  them  than  it  would  be  of  a  like  period  taken  from 
the  life  of  any  poor  devil  whose  lot  has  been  cast 
in  the  forward  ends  of  ships. 

I  parted  with  Little  John  in  New  York,  where 
Crimson's  bank-note  had  taken  us.  He  stood  before 
the  windows  of  an  employment  agency,  where  he 
had  just  signed  himself  away  to  the  foreman  of  a 
mine,  somewhere  far  away,  within  the  alluring  con 
fines  of  the  "mounteens."  He  waved  his  "sou' 
wester"  at  me  across  a  river  running  to  the  banks 
with  pallid  people — a  queer,  small,  alien  figure  of 
brown  and  yellow — pathetic,  he  appeared  to  me  in 
that  crowded  wilderness.  He  waved,  and  I  waved 
in  return,  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  The  same 
night  I  shipped  out  of  New  York  on  a  square-rigger 
for  the  passage  around  the  Horn. 


STORM 

..  And  so  it  was  that  my  most  momentous  voyage 
of  all  came  to  me  first.  For  in  a  certain  way  that 
hundred-and-seventeen-day  passage  had  more  to 
do  with  the  shaping  of  my  after-life  than  any  like 
period  of  my  experience. 

One  of  the  crew  in  that  square-rigger  (it  was  a 
motley  aggregation  of  castes  and  nations)  was  an 
old  Virginian  who,  to  put  it  in  the  literary  vernacu 
lar,  had  seen  better  days.  He  was  a  blasphemous 
and  foul-mouthed  old  wreck,  but  a  great  student, 
given  when  in  his  cups  to  repeating  endless  passages 
from  the  classics. 

He  took  a  tremendous  liking  to  me,  for  some 
unknown  reason — perhaps  because  I  was  awed  by 
his  drunken  readings.  One  day  he  presented  me 
with  a  coverless  and  bedraggled  volume  of  the 
Conquest  of  Peru.  I  hated  to  hurt  the  old  sinner's 
feelings,  and,  since  he  sat  beside  me,  combing  his 
foul  beard  with  his  fouler  fingers  and  watching  me 
out  of  his  squint  eyes  till  I  presented  at  least  an 
appearance  of  interest,  I  plunged  with  pretended 
gusto  into  the  first  pages. 

And  so  it  comes  that  the  first  niche  in  my  own 
private  temple  of  fame  is  preserved  for  Prescott. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  any  other  book — of  romance, 
history,  epic  poetry — would  have  played  much  the 
same  miracle  with  me,  but  by  the  grace  of  circum 
stances  and  that  old,  white-haired  pirate,  Archie 
Reynolds,  it  was  the  Conquest  that  set  my  ponder 
ous  spirit  on  the  move. 

Reynolds  had  an  inconceivable  number  of  man 
gled  volumes  stored  in  the  depths  of  his  bunk.  He 
had  a  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  with  half  the  pages 

89 


STORM 

missing,  but,  as  I  fathomed  only  about  half  of  what 
I  read,  the  balance  of  things  was  somewhat  com 
pensated;  Hamlet  married  Rosalind  in  spite  of 
Shylock's  strategems,  and  I  was  content.  For 
weeks  I  lived  in  far  worlds,  going  aloft  and  coiling 
lines  on  deck  only  with  my  reflex  intelligence. 

After  that  passage  I  made  two  others  with  Archie 
Reynolds,  the  last  in  an  iron  tramp.  A  curious 
comradeship  existed  between  us.  It  makes  rather 
a  whimsical  memory.  I  left  him  as  I  had  left 
Little  John,  waving  across  a  river  of  people,  this 
time  in  San  Francisco.  That  parting  was  at  least 
momentous  enough  for  me  to  remember  the  date- 
March  thirty-first.  It  has  become  memorable  for 
other  reasons. 

Two  years  from  that  day  I  was  buying  a  dog 
in  a  Hongkong  market-place.  The  bluejacket  of 
her  Majesty's  Navy  who  offered  him  for  sale  re 
lated  gravely  how  he  had  brought  the  animal  at 
great  pain  and  expense  all  the  way  from  Timbuctoo, 
where  its  mother  was  a  "holy  dog"  in  the  temple  of 
some  divinity  or  other,  and  from  whence  he  had 
stolen  it  at  peril  of  his  life.  My  conscience  was  not 
bothered  overmuch  by  the  fact  that  I  had  seen 
that  identical  puppy  with  three  slavering  brothers, 
all  orange  and  white,  thick-chested  and  screw- 
tailed,  on  the  deck  of  a  private  yacht  the  day 
before,  so  I  paid  down  the  sovereign,  christened  my 
purchase  "Tim"  on  the  spot,  in  commemoration  of 
his  mythical  birthplace,  and  carried  him  away  under 
my  jacket  to  the  berth  where  my  cargo-boat  lay. 

Another  March  the  thirty-first,  and  I  was  sailing 
out  of  Havana,  Cuba,  in  the  brig  Ocean  Foam,  the 

90 


STORM 

most  thoroughly  disreputable-looking  craft  I  have 
ever  laid  eyes  upon. 

It  was  necessity  that  put  me  in  that  hulk,  not 
choice.  Too  many  people  besides  myself  were 
anxious  to  get  out  of  Havana  that  day,  on  account 
of  the  fever — people  with  money  to  pay  for  their 
passages.  And  four  years  had  brought  me  only  a 
vast  and  unprofitable  bulk,  the  clothes  that  shielded 
it  for  the  moment,  the  equivalent  of  nine  dollars 
American,  and  Tim,  who  had  swaggered  his  way 
half  around  the  world  at  my  heels. 

And  so  on  this  third  year-day  all  of  us  went  on 
board  of  Peter  Bower's  dirty  craft  and  sailed  away: 
my  bulk,  my  nine  dollars  American,  my  dog,  and 
my  memories — because  my  memories  could  not  be 
left  ashore.  The  Ocean  Foam  was  bound  for  Halifax 
in  rum  and  tobacco — according  to  Peter  Bower's 
bills.  But  it  seemed  to  me  as  we  bowled  along  to 
the  north  before  southwesterly  airs  that  we  were 
making  uncommonly  far  to  the  westward  for  a 
Halifax  course.  It  was  not  till  the  afternoon  of  the 
thirteenth  day  out  that  I  realized  how  far  we  had 
gone  astray. 

We  had  been  running  all  that  day  in  a  heavy 
mist.  About  three  in  the  afternoon  I  happened  to 
look  up  from  a  bucket  I  was  mending  on  the  after- 
deck,  and  there,  straight  before  my  eyes,  loomed  the 
stern  of  a  schooner  under  a  trysail  which  had 
slipped  within  the  circle  of  vision  as  silently  as  a 
ghost.  It  was  too  far  off  through  the  mist  for  me 
to  make  out  the  name,  but  I  could  never  miss  that 
characteristic  half-moon  of  words  beneath,  with  a 
break  at  the  first  third  of  its  arc — OLD  HARBOR. 

7  91 


STORM 

"My  God!"  I  said.  It  gave  me  the  strangest 
start  to  see  it  there,  like  an  accusing  finger  pro 
truding  from  the  shadows. 

"I  never  knew  'Banker'  to  get  out  this  early," 
was  my  next  observation.  I  had  no  idea  but  that  we 
were  running  across  the  Grand  Banks,  and  it  was 
not  till  we  had  shouldered  past  a  dory  with  the 
vague  figures  of  two  men  straining  in  it  that  I  came 
to  the  astounding  realization  that  we  were  very 
far  to  the  west,  indeed.  Old  Harbor  schooners  fish 
one  man  to  the  dory  on  the  Banks — all  the  trawlers 
work  in  the  Channel.  Somewhere,  not  forty  miles 
to  the  west  through  that  waving  blanket  of  vapor, 
stretched  the  yellow,  familiar  backbone  of  the 
Cape. 

Of  a  sudden  the  whole  of  my  old  life  came  rush 
ing  out  of  the  mists  of  memory  and  crowded  about 
me:  the  ghosts  of  odors,  the  echoes  of  sounds,  the 
wraiths  of  lights  and  shadows  I  had  known  flickered 
in  my  brain;  and  then  I  was  Tony  Manta's  boy 
again,  mumbling  over  the  names  of  places — Snail 
Road,  Shank  Painter,  the  Race,  Black  Water — and 
smacking  at  the  taste  of  them  in  my  mouth. 

Evening  came  down.  The  fog  broke  and  drained 
away  into  the  northwest,  leaving  the  sky  jeweled 
with  stars.  There  came  a  star  low  down  in  the 
west.  It  came  and  went,  came  and  went  again: 
a  flash — -one,  two,  three,  four,  five — flash — one,  two, 
three,  four,  five — flash — one,  two — why  should  I 
count  any  more?  I  knew  it  already.  A  flash  and 
then  five  seconds.  High  Land. 

Even  as  I  watched  there  came  the  sound  of  a 
muffled  order  from  away  aft,  and  the  bowsprit  of 

92 


STORM 

the  Ocean  Foam  moved  over  before  my  eyes  till  it 
pointed  at  the  far-away  flicker  of  light. 

Now  I  was  as  thoroughly  bewildered  as  a  man 
may  be.  I  made  my  way  aft  to  where  the  skipper 
lounged,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  cabin  companion. 
He  was  a  thin,  lantern-jawed,  loose-jointed  man, 
slow  of  movement,  and  with  a  way  of  spitting  over 
the  nearest  rail,  no  matter  how  far  distant  it  hap 
pened  to  be,  whenever  his  speech  required  a  mark 
of  punctuation.  I  leaned  my  elbows  on  the  house 
and  examined  his  face  covertly  for  some  clue  to 
this  business.  He  caught  my  look,  guessed  its 
significance,  and  grinned. 

"Heavy  weather,"  he  remarked,  launching  a 
period  over  the  port  side.  "Got  to  run  under  a 
lee  here."  This  time  he  favored  the  starboard. 
There  was  not  a  vestige  of  cloud  in  the  sky,  and 
the  air  continued  light.  I  turned  again  to  find  him 
winking  and  chuckling  at  me. 

To  further  deepen  my  mystification,  when  we 
had  run  past  High  Land,  well  away  from  shore,  and 
stood  some  distance  to  the  northwest,  as  though 
making  a  course  for  Boston,  all  the  running-lights 
were  extinguished  and  the  vessel  wore  around  to 
the  south. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of  our  destination  now. 
Mysterious  activities  awakened.  Two  boats  were 
swung  out  on  the  davits  in  readiness  for  lowering. 
The  main  hatch  was  removed,  and  by  the  light  of 
a  lantern  below  I  made  out  a  part  of  the  crew 
moving  about  among  the  bales  of  tobacco  in  the 
hold.  Presently  these  bales  began  to  come  up  at 
the  end  of  a  groaning  fall  and  swing  out  like  huge, 

93 


STORM 

silent  pendulums  over  the  starlit  deck.  At  a  crisp 
order  from  the  master  I  worried  them  over  and  let 
them  go  along  the  port  rail.  All  on  board  moved 
with  a  discreet  alacrity,  whispering  and  gesturing 
like  shadowy  conspirators,  although  there  could  not 
have  been  another  human  ear  within  a  radius  of 
three  miles  of  the  Ocean  Foam.  Even  Tim,  who 
came  yawning  and  stretching  from  a  nap  in  the 
forecastle,  manifested  his  uneasiness  at  this  ani 
mated  silence  by  pressing  against  my  leg  and  whin 
ing. 

The  skipper  passed  me  briskly,  turned,  as  if  at 
a  sudden  thought,  and  peered  into  my  face  with 
the  same  expression  of  crafty  meaning  he  had  exhib 
ited  earlier  in  the  evening.  He  was  a  different  man 
from  the  one  I  had  known  for  the  past  two  weeks. 

"Goin9  to  put  some  goods  ashore  here,"  he  whis 
pered.  "You'll  go  with  the  starboard  boat."  His 
caution  was  so  great  that  he  left  me,  went  clear  to 
the  rail,  and  delivered  his  termination  at  short 
range. 

Well,  I  had  been  a  dumb  one,  in  all  truth.  I 
looked  from  one  rail  to  the  other.  Rum — tobacco. 
Of  course.  Had  it  not  been  rum  and  tobacco  that 
other  time,  when  I  ran  away  with  a  certain  little 
girl  and  saw  a  strange  sight  on  the  banks  of  Race 
Run?  Now  I  remembered  every  detail  of  that  long- 
ago  night — Helltown's  dead  men  crunching  over 
the  beach,  the  sounds  of  muffled  voices,  even  the 
smell  of  the  back-country  tracks  through  which  we 
blundered. 

Strange  exultation  came  over  me  at  the  thought 
that  I  was  going  to  smell  the  back-country  smells 

94 


STORM 

again  this  night,  even  if  it  should  be  no  more  than  a 
faint  air  of  them  coming  to  my  nostrils  from  over 
the  dunes.  Why,  the  thing  was  too  impossible — 
too  melodramatic.  No  more  than  six  weeks  ago  I 
had  remembered  this  strip  of  sand  out  in  the  sea 
only  as  the  background  of  a  half-forgotten  dream. 
There  was  a  barmaid  in  London,  a  red-cheeked, 
ample-bosomed  girl  by  the  name  of  Lily  Thinker. 
I  remembered  how  I  had  told  her,  no  more  than 
forty  days  ago,  that  I  was  coming  back  in  the  sum 
mer  and  settle  down  with  her  and  take  a  chandlery 
business.  And  I  had  half  believed  it.  I  laughed 
aloud  there  in  the  darkness  at  the  grim,  monstrous 
humor  of  little  humanity  fluttering  its  ineffectual 
hands. 

But  what  if  any  one  ashore  should  see  me?  I 
was  suddenly  dismayed  by  this  possibility  of  being 
recognized,  perhaps  confronted  by  one  of  the  very 
youths  I  had  made  half  an  orphan.  What  if  our 
boats  should  run  afoul  of  sunken  buoys?  What 
if — I  called  a  halt  to  these  grotesque  speculations. 
Our  business  would  be  done  in  the  dark — that  much 
was  certain. 

The  skipper  knelt  on  the  after-deck,  fumbling 
over  a  dark  object  which  presently  glared  at  me 
with  one  round  red  eye,  like  an  ember  in  the  bottom 
of  a  narrow  chimney.  He  turned  it  off  and  on  and 
off  again,  then,  apparently  satisfied  with  its  work 
ing,  carried  it  forward  and  came  back  to  stand  by 
the  binnacle,  where  he  waited  till  a  flash  of  Race 
Point  bore  northeast  by  north.  Then  the  Ocean 
Foam  was  hove  to  and  the  red-eyed  box  winked 
five  times  over  the  port  bow. 

95 


STORM 

The  vague,  dark  belt  of  the  shore-line  remained 
unbroken.  The  red  lantern  winked  another  series 
of  five,  but  it  was  not  till  it  had  repeated  its  cautious 
signal  seven  times  over  that  an  evidence  of  life 
was  visible  ashore.  Then  a  tiny  green  eye  blinked 
at  us,  five  answering  periods.  I  figured  it  near 
Race  Run. 

Immediately  the  boats  were  lowered  to  the  water, 
the  lines  running  without  a  creak  through  well- 
slushed  blocks,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  a 
dozen  bales  of  tobacco  and  thirty  kegs  of  rum  were 
swung  over  the  rails  and  deposited  gently  in  their 
bottoms. 

I  went  to  the  starboard  side  and  threw  a  leg  over 
the  rail,  preparing  to  swing  down  into  the  boat, 
which  was  barely  visible  in  the  gloom  below.  But 
when  I  started  to  lift  the  other  foot  I  found  Tim 
tugging  at  the  leg  of  the  oil-pants  and  whining 
uneasily.  I  remembered  I  had  never  gone  in  a 
boat  before  without  the  dog.  The  skipper  came 
running  across  the  deck,  swearing  under  his  breath 
at  the  commotion,  but  when  I  kicked  gently  and 
commanded  the  animal  to  be  quiet  he  let  go  his 
hold,  sat  back  on  his  haunches,  and  howled.  In 
that  hanging  silence  it  reverberated  like  the  wailing 
of  a  lost  legion.  The  skipper  gave  voice  in  echo, 
no  longer  under  his  breath. 

—  that  dog!    I'll  fix  'im— I'll  show  'im— get 

into  that  there  boat,  you ,  an*  push  off."    The 

shadows  of  his  loose  arms  waved  in  the  darkness 
as  he  made  at  me,  but  for  the  moment  I  held  my 
ground. 

"You're  not  going  to  hurt  that  dog?"  I  said. 

96 


STORM 

He  started  another  oath,  caught  it  abruptly, 
spat  over  the  side,  and  peered  at  me  as  though  bal 
ancing  his  temper  with  the  need  of  quiet. 

"All  right,"  he  muttered,  getting  a  grip  on  the 
dog's  collar  and  starting  to  drag  him  whimpering 
toward  the  companion.  "I'll  stick  him  below. 
Now,  for  God's  sake  hurry  up  and  clear  away!" 

An  instant  later  I  was  in  the  boat  and  a  dozen 
oars  were  shoving  it  clear  of  the  vessel's  side.  I 
could  hear  the  master  still  grumbling  and  Tim's 
whines  of  distress,  and  I  called  to  the  dog  to  be 
quiet.  The  effect  of  my  cautious  hail  was  as 
dramatic  as  it  was  unexpected.  There  came  the 
sound  of  a  sudden  oath,  followed  by  a  groan; 
something  hurtled  through  the  air  and  sank  astern 
of  us  in  a  gray  fountain  of  spray. 

"Back  water,  back  water,  you  fools!"  I  shouted, 
falling  on  my  knees  and  leaning  far  over  the  gun 
wale.  It  seemed  that  a  full  minute  went  by  before 
a  broad,  white  head  broke  water  within  a  foot  of 
my  hand,  but  I  had  the  dripping,  whimpering  dog 
over  the  side  before  our  stern  way  could  be  checked. 
The  skipper's  head  loomed  over  the  rail  above.  He 
was  nearly  inarticulate  with  fury  and  shook  a  torn 
fist  before  his  face. 

"Now — now — now — you've — gone — and  fixed 
this  night's  g-g-game — -fine — you  .  .  .  '  He  trailed 
off  into  a  stream  of  maudlin  abuse,  hanging  over 
our  heads  all  the  way  to  the  bows,  where  we  ran 
under  to  fall  in  astern  of  the  mate's  boat.  His 
venom  still  pursued  us,  a  disembodied  whisper  of 
rage,  long  after  the  Ocean  Foam  had  blotted  away 
in  the  night. 

97 


STORM 

Now  we  rowed  silently  for  a  time,  the  oar-locks 
muffled  with  wads  of  burlap  and  the  oars  dipping 
noiselessly  into  the  black  water.  I  had  to  strain 
my  eyes  sharply  to  keep  sight  of  the  lead-boat,  a 
dozen  fathoms  ahead.  Even  this  became  impos 
sible  when  the  low-lying  shadow  of  the  shore  dunes 
rose  up  to  swallow  the  lesser  blotch.  But  the  green 
eye  was  winking  again,  and  I  steered  boldly  for  that. 

It  was  so  quiet  that  I  heard  the  bell  in  Town 
Hall  tower,  four  miles  away  over  the  sand,  ringing 
the  hour  of  eleven.  And  at  that  I  wished  suddenly 
that  I  might  turn  back  and  go  aboard  the  Ocean 
Foam  and  sail  away  into  the  blank  from  which  I 
had  come,  and  never  set  foot  upon  that  beach  in 
the  shadows  ahead.  For  somehow  the  notes  of 
that  distant  iron  tongue  seemed  to  me  like  a  wild 
night-alarum  clamoring  over  the  roofs  of  Old  Har 
bor  telling  the  sleepers  under  them  that  Joe  Manta 
had  come  back. 

And  then  a  vagrant  air  from  off  the  shore  assailed 
my  nostrils  with  the  faint  night-scent  of  arbutus, 
and  I  knew  they  would  be  blooming  in  the  hollow 
to  the  south  of  the  lily-ponds,  where  I  had  squan 
dered  a  thousand  of  them  under  my  lusty  boots 
in  the  days  that  came  back  to  me  now  suddenly — 
ineffable,  bright  phantoms  of  content. 

I  might  have  done  something  foolish  then  had 
Tim  not  created  a  diversion  by  planting  his  paws 
on  the  gunwale,  peering  into  the  gloom  ahead,  and 
growling.  I  threw  an  oil- jacket  over  his  head  and 
crowded  him  down  between  my  knees.  An  instant 
later  our  bow  was  grating  on  sand,  and  a  shadow 
came  crunching  toward  us. 


STORM 

"More  to  the  left,"  the  shadow  directed,  in  a 
furtive  undertone  that  brought  my  hands  up  jerking, 
with  half  a  broken  tiller-line  in  one  of  them.  Then 
I  fell  to  shivering  and  calling  myself  a  fool,  all 
over  a  familiar  voice  whispering  in  the  dark.  For 
the  shadow  on  the  beach  was  Will  Hemans,  the 
blacksmith  who  had  once  called  me  "Joe  Snow." 

I  mumbled  to  the  crew,  we  backed  off  and  floated 
to  the  westward  till  our  dim  pilot  called  to  put  in, 
and  I  found  the  beaches  of  Race  Run  sliding  past 
us.  Our  bow  caromed  gently  against  the  mate's 
boat,  sending  us  to  bury  a  nose  in  the  sand  along 
side. 

Men  were  coming  and  going — how  many  of  them 
I  could  not  say  in  the  gloom.  The  mate's  boat  was 
already  half  cleared,  and  I  could  make  out  the  dark 
blotch  of  the  latest  bale  moving  up-shore  upon  the 
shoulders  of  two  black  figures.  Conversation,  or 
ders,  directions,  all  were  carried  on  in  subdued 
whispers,  through  which  there  ran  a  flutter  of  haste 
and  uneasiness.  More  than  one  figure  left  off 
heaving  for  a  moment,  to  step  aside  and  peer  into 
the  gloom  up  or  down  the  beach.  One  waded  out 
into  the  riffle  beside  me,  swore  in  soft,  hissing  explo 
sives,  fidgeted,  and  craned  his  head  toward  Wood 
End.  He  was  so  close  that  I  could  hear  the  water 
dripping  from  the  creases  of  his  boots.  My  father 
used  to  go  dragging  with  a  man  named  Antone 
Perez.  This  was  Antone  Perez  standing  by  me  now. 
I  hardly  dared  breathe  until  he  had  splashed  ashore 
once  more  without  marking  me. 

There  was  another  voice  among  the  whisperings 
that  set  me  to  rummaging  through  my  memory  for 

99 


STORM 

a  face  and  a  name  to  give  to  it.  I  could  have  sworn 
that  I  knew  that  voice;  there  was  even  something 
familiar  in  the  vague  pattern  the  whisperer  made 
upon  the  gloom.  I  leaned  forward  and  strained  my 
eyes  and  ears  to  catch  some  telltale  contour  or 
trick  of  speech,  but  still  his  identity  was  beyond 
me.  I  could  get  him,  and  yet  I  could  not  get  him. 
He  was  talking  with  our  mate,  angrily  it  seemed  to 
me,  complaining  and  expostulating.  I  could  catch 
only  an  occasional  fragment  of  what  he  said: 
"Devil  of  a  row — hear  it  in  here  as  plain  as — 
What  you  trying  to  do  out  there — raise  the  whole 
coast?  .  .  .  Wood  End  station — bet  a  hat — crazy 


as— " 


He  grew  more  peevish  as  he  went  on,  and,  though 
I  could  not  hear  the  mate's  replies,  they  seemed  to 
add  to  his  discontent.  He  held  his  arms  akimbo 
and  shook  them  pettishly;  and  then,  in  a  flash  of 
memory,  I  had  my  man.  That  little  gesture  of  the 
elbows  carried  me  back  twelve  years  to  another 
night  when  I  saw  dark  men  carrying  burdens  up 
the  Helltown  dunes,  and  there  was  a  shadowy  man 
who  passed,  halted,  shook  his  arms  in  this  strange 
way,  then  caught  up  my  little  companion  and  ran 
away  with  her  through  the  night. 

It  was  years  since  I  had  remembered  that  mystery 
of  my  boyhood.  But  now  that  it  obtruded  itself 
once  more,  so  abruptly  and  dramatically,  I  found 
myself  burning  with  the  desire,  as  ardent  as  ever  it 
was  of  old,  to  know  who  this  ancient  bogie  of  mine 
could  be.  And  why  could  I  not  clear  the  matter 
up  for  good  and  all  to-night?  Fortune  had  made 

me  a  gift  of  the  opportunity  in  an  utterly  unex- 

100 


STORM 

pected  way.  I  could  just  jump  ashore  and 
up  to  my  mysterious  arm-shaker*  unobtrusively; 
nothing  unnatural  about  that.  The  possibility  of 
being  recognized  by  one  of  the  others  occurred  to 
me.  Perhaps  he  himself  knew  me. 

In  all  this  speculation  I  was  carefully  dodging  the 
real  peril  in  the  matter,  the  insidious  danger  which 
had  been  stalking  toward  me  ever  since  I  sniffed 
that  wandering  air  from  over  the  arbutus  hollow — 
the  danger  of  finding  myself  suddenly  out  of  the 
boat,  running  away  up  the  Helltown  dunes,  and 
across  the  sand,  plunging  through  the  back-country 
tracks,  and  standing  under  the  flare  of  a  front- 
street  lamp  to  shout  the  tidings  up  and  down  its 
length  that  Joe  Manta  had  come  home  again. 

So  if  I  stepped  ashore  I  would  be  facing  home. 

But  I  would  know  my  man  of  darkness. 

But  I  would  be  half-way  to  the  break  of  the  dune. 

But  I  would  lay  a  mystery.  I  argued  it  desper 
ately  with  myself,  and  all  the  time  I  was  losing 
ground.  Even  Tim,  fidgeting  between  my  knees 
at  the  land-smells,  seemed  to  implore  me  to  be  a 
monstrous  fool. 

I  will  never  know  how  I  would  have  come  out 
of  it  in  the  end,  for  at  the  very  moment  when  I 
was  deepest  in  the  struggle  the  whole  affair  was 
taken  out  of  my  hands  in  an  abrupt,  unexpected, 
and  violent  manner. 


VIII 

I   SEE  A   STRANGE  SIGHT  ON  A   PORCH 

I  HAPPENED  to  be  seated  to  face  up -shore, 
toward  the  Race  Point  station,  and  so  it  came 
that  I  saw  them  before  any  of  the  others  were 
aware  of  their  approach.  Even  then  I  was  so 
taken  up  with  my  internal  affairs  that  I  had  been 
watching  the  little  clump  of  shadow  growing  upon 
the  fabric  of  the  gloom  for  a  full  minute  before  it 
occurred  to  me  that  anything  might  be  wrong. 

Now  I  did  not  start  or  gasp  or  perform  any  of  the 
business  of  alarm.  I  was  calmer  than  at  any  other 
moment  of  the  whole  evening.  I  even  took  time 
to  analyze  the  situation  with  some  deliberation, 
while  the  mass  continued  to  widen  and  darken. 
The  advancing  party  might,  after  all,  be  but  another 
detachment  of  our  own  company  returning  along 
the  beach,  and  in  that  case,  I  reflected,  my  outcry 
would  be  a  false-fire,  a  needless  hubhub  would  be 
followed  by  abuse,  investigations,  peerings  in  the 
culprit's  face,  and  ultimate  discovery  of  his  identity. 

I  looked  about.  There  were  no  symptoms  of 
alarm.  Figures  bent  and  straightened  under  bur 
dens;  my  man  of  mystery  still  complained  to  the 
vague  outlines  of  the  mate.  The  shadow  on  the 
beach  continued  to  approach.  I  rose  quietly  and 

stepped  out  of  the  boat. 

102 


STORM 

"Watch  out  for  me,"  I  whispered  to  Tim,  freeing 
his  head  of  the  oil-jacket.  He  clawed  at  the  gun 
wale  and  whimpered  after  me  as  I  waded  off  slowly, 
taking  care  not  to  thrash  the  water  that  rose  to 
my  knees,  lapped  my  armpits,  and  finally  rimmed 
my  neck.  At  this  depth  I  halted  and  turned  around, 
and  where  the  boats  lay  on  the  beach  I  could  dis 
tinguish  nothing  more  than  a  stealthy  agitation  of 
the  gloom. 

Tim  still  whimpered,  and  the  splashing  of  his 
pats  in  shallow  water  told  me  he  had  gotten  out  of 
the  boat.  It  was  so  quiet  that  I  could  hear  the 
little  waves  slapping  on  the  sand  for  a  long  way  up 
and  down  the  shore.  It  seemed  an  hour  of  dragging 
minutes  that  I  shivered  there  in  the  water,  listening 
to  these  undertones  of  the  silence. 

"I  was  wrong,"  I  muttered  to  myself;  and  before 
I  could  take  another  breath  the  night  had  filled 
with  a  tumult  of  cries,  blows,  oaths,  scurrying 
footfalls,  spattered  gravel,  the  hollow  clatter  of 
boots  on  the  planking  of  boats,  and  a  rattle  of  oar 
locks.  A  boat  came  driving  at  me  so  desperately 
that  I  only  saved  myself  by  diving,  and  even  then 
a  deep  blade  set  my  head  afire  with  sparks.  I 
stayed  down  as  long  as  my  lungs  would  hold,  and 
the  passage  of  another  hard-driven  boat  thrummed 
in  my  ears. 

And  then  when  I  did  come  up  my  blowing  and 
sputtering  came  near  putting  an  end  to  my  con 
cealment.  The  commotion  had  subsided  almost  as 
abruptly  as  it  had  risen,  only  the  dying  whine  of 
oars  in  locks  and  the  rumor  of  a  pursuit  here  and 
there  along  the  face  of  the  dunes  remaining  to  tell 

103 


STORM 

the  story  of  surprise  and  violence.  It  was  all  over. 
And  there  I  was,  heaving  desperately  and  spitting 
salt-water  and  rubbing  my  eyes  with  a  great  splash 
ing  of  water,  when  the  sound  of  a  voice  not  a 
hundred  feet  away  set  me  gasping. 

"What's  that  out  there— splashing— hear  it?" 
It  was  the  Wood  End  captain  speaking,  a  man  they 
called  "Big  Sam."  The  rain  of  drops  from  my 
hair  sounded  in  my  ears  like  a  volley  of  musketry 
fire.  It  was  a  terribly  long  minute  before  another 
voice  broke  the  hush. 

"Yeh,  still  drippin'.  Seems  to  me  I  see  a  dog 
about.  'S  probably  him,  over  on  the  other  bank." 

And,  sure  enough,  even  as  he  said  the  words, 
Tim's  wide  head  forged  alongside  of  me.  I  have 
never  heard  a  more  welcome  sound  in  my  life  than 
the  dog's  whimper  of  relief  at  finding  me.  Big  Sam 
gave  a  grunt,  and  I  could  hear  the  two  crunching 
away  over  the  sand. 

I  waited  for  another  ten  minutes,  shivering  with 
cold  and  holding  the  dog's  head  on  my  shoulder, 
before  I  ventured  to  wade  ashore,  and  then  I  made 
a  long  line  of  it,  following  up  the  middle  of  the  Run 
till  it  shallowed  to  my  knees.  Then  I  scuttled 
across  the  salt-marshes,  moving  from  hummock  to 
hummock  with  all  the  stealth  of  a  tremulous  phan 
tom.  Once  a  party  passed  within  fifty  yards  of 
where  1  cowered,  fair  in  the  center  of  an  open  space. 
Big  Sam  was  with  it.  I  heard  him  boasting  that 
he  had  been  the  first  one  at  Wood  End  to  hear  a 
dog  howling  offshore.  It  made  me  smile,  even  in 
my  tight  circumstances,  to  picture  Big  Sam's  face 
if  he  could  have  known  that  that  very  howling  dog 

104 


STORM 

was  no  more  than  a  stone's-throw  from  him  then, 
with  two  large  hands  clamped  desperately  over  his 
muzzle.  I  did  tell  him  a  few  years  later,  and  his 
face  was  as  good  as  my  picture. 

If  my  breathing  was  not  easier,  when  I  came  to 
the  last  ridge  of  dunes  and  slid  down  through  the 
tops  of  trees  into  the  shelter  of  the  woods,  at  least 
I  paid  less  attention  to  it.  I  threw  myself  down  in 
a  little  open  spot  where  the  wild  cranberry  mat 
grew  thick,  and  there  I  lay  and  shivered  while  Tim 
prowled  round  and  round  the  edges,  sniffing  at  the 
new  smells  of  the  back  country.  It  was  only  now 
that  the  desperate  case  to  which  the  dog's  momen 
tous  howl  had  brought  affairs  came  down  over  me 
with  all  its  hopeless  weight.  I  was  cut  off  from  the 
sea  way  by  the  retreat  of  the  boats,  for  it  was 
hardly  probable  that  Peter  Bower  would  bother 
his  conscience  over  the  chance  of  a  straggler  on  the 
beach.  No,  the  Ocean  Foam  was  as  far  offshore 
at  this  moment  as  all  her  canvas  would  put  her. 
I  might  make  my  way  up  the  Cape.  But  sooner 
or  later  I  would  have  to  pass  through  villages  where 
there  were  folks  I  knew,  and  the  news  of  it  would 
be  in  Old  Harbor  before  the  night. 

I  must  come  to  life  again,  at  all  events.  It 
seemed  to  me  I  would  rather  do  it  in  the  flesh  than 
as  the  tale  of  a  skulking  shadow.  More  than  that, 
I  was  chattering  with  the  chill  of  the  night  and 
my  wet  clothes.  There  would  be  a  warm  kitchen 
at  the  little  house  by  the  edge  of  the  creek;  I 
seemed  to  hear  my  mother  rattling  the  embers  in 
the  stove  and  crying  over  my  coming — and  at  that 
I  was  on  my  feet  and  plunging  through  the  under- 

105 


STORM 

growth,  where  the  runners  of  the  cat-vine  tore  at 
my  thighs.  Then  my  feet  caught  the  smoother 
going  of  a  cranberry-picker's  path,  and  presently 
the  Race  Road  opened  before  me. 

Already  I  was  warm.  A  stream  of  air  flowed 
across  the  road  from  a  tributary  wood-path,  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  swamp  orchids  from  Paul  Dyer's 
bottoms.  Then  there  was  a  draught  of  beach-plums 
from  a  hill  to  the  south,  and  after  that  the  Province 
Land  pines  shut  in,  straight,  man-planted  rows, 
running  sharp  to  the  edges  of  the  thorough 
fare. 

Intoxication  laid  hold  of  me.  I  strained  out  to 
all  these  odors  and  shadows  and  rumors  of  the 
familiar  night  as  a  drunken  man  claws  at  his  cup. 
So  I  came  past  Lena  Dow's  bog,  skirted  Joseph 
Deal's  north  fence  and  the  field  where  the  circus 
came  when  I  was  twelve,  and  then  I  stood  at  the 
crest  of  Deal's  Hill,  with  a  trail  leading  off  along 
the  First  Ridge,  to  bring  me  home  about  the  skirts 
of  the  town. 

But  here  I  hesitated.  Old  Harbor  lay  below  me, 
spread  out  in  a  skeleton  crescent  of  lights — more 
lights  than  there  should  have  been  at  this  time  of 
night,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  had  heard  Town  Hall 
ringing  midnight  while  I  lay  among  the  wild  cran 
berries.  I  listened.  There  were  surely  many  people 
running  near  the  square. 

It  was  an  utterly  mad  thing  to  do.  I  suppose  it 
was  the  same  impulsion  which  sometimes  moves 
criminals  and  hunted  animals  that  sent  me  pound 
ing  along  the  Race  Road  now  instead  of  through 
the  ridge  trail.  I  could  guess  pretty  nearly  what 

106 


STORM 

it  was  that  had  the  townspeople  up  and  all  those 
lights  flaring  in  the  windows,  and  yet  I  had  to  go 
at  any  price  and  see  it  with  my  own  eyes. 

The  square  was  empty  when  I  came  to  it  by  way 
of  the  post-office  street,  a  back  yard,  and  an  alley, 
but  a  muffled  turbulence  to  the  westward  told  me 
that  the  trouble  had  moved  in  the  direction  of 
Town  Hall.  So  I  doubled  back  along  my  alley, 
crossed  my  yard  and  another,  and  came  out  in  the 
shadow  of  a  house  directly  opposite  the  side-porch 
of  the  Town  Hall,  and  in  the  rear  of  a  crowd  of 
men  and  women,  some  only  half  clothed,  and  others 
in  the  motley  of  a  night-alarm,  and  still  others 
frowsy  from  their  pillows. 

They  all  stared  at  the  porch,  where  the  town 
marshal,  Asa  Nickerson,  bent  over  the  keyhole  in 
the  glow  of  half  a  dozen  lanterns.  The  steps  were 
crowded  with  figures:  five  or  six  stood  about  Nick 
erson,  one  of  these  with  his  elbows  bound  behind 
him.  Looking  more  carefully,  I  observed  that  some 
of  those  on  the  steps  were  served  in  the  same  way, 
and  among  them  I  recognized  the  mate  and  one  of 
the  crew  of  the  Ocean  Foam.  Then  there  was  Will 
Hemans,  the  blacksmith  whose  furtive  hail  had 
brought  me  up  with  such  a  start,  and  Antone  Perez, 
Charlie  Young,  and  five  or  six  others — all  of  them 
known  to  me,  at  least  by  sight. 

But  where  was  my  mysterious  shade  of  the  ges 
turing  elbows?  I  examined  them  again  with  a 
suddenly  heightened  interest,  one  by  one.  No,  I 
could  account  for  all  of  them.  A  wave  of  childish 
resentment  swept  over  me  at  the  realization  that 
my  arm-shaking  fellow  had  eluded  me  now  for  a 
8  107 


STORM 

second  time.  "He  must  have  gotten  away  in  the 
boats,"  I  muttered. 

Asa  Nickerson  had  unlocked  the  door  by  this 
time  and  straightened  up.  Within  were  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  basement,  the  only  jail  the  town 
possessed.  Now,  at  a  stir  among  the  men  on  the 
porch,  a  figure  I  had  not  before  noticed  came  into 
the  light.  This  was  Mr.  Snow,  the  rich  man  of 
Old  Harbor,  that  pompous,  ruddy  aristocrat  who 
had  moved  through  my  boyhood  in  a  golden  aura 
of  health  and  power  and  well-being. 

It  was  a  moment  before  I  could  realize  that  this 
was  the  same  man.  It  seemed  incredible  that  four 
short  years  could  have  drained  all  the  color  out  of  his 
face  and  set  those  haggard  lines  running  across  his 
cheeks  and  his  shoulders  trembling  with  a  palsy. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  man? 

Now  I  noted  another  circumstance.  I  had  sup 
posed  him  a  spectator — the  prominent  citizen  come 
to  view  a  parcel  of  trapped  miscreants.  But  why, 
then,  should  a  man  stand  on  either  side  of  him,  hold 
ing  his  wrists?  And  why  should  Asa  Nickerson 
motion  to  them,  and  why  should  they  start  to  lead 
him  toward  the  door  and  he  drag  back  at  their 
hands? 

I  became  aware  of  a  growing  turmoil  in  the  crowd 
to  the  right.  Some  one  came  bursting  through; 
I  could  see  a  head,  muffled  in  something  white, 
threading  swiftly  through  the  pack,  and  then  there 
was  a  woman  running  up  the  steps  in  the  flare  of 
the  lanterns. 

She  was  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak  with  a  hood, 
evidently  thrown  hastily  over  her  night-clothing. 

108 


STORM 

There  was  not  a  word  or  a  cry  in  all  the  crowded 
street  as  the  woman  made  her  way  to  where  Mr. 
Snow  stood  between  his  guarders.  My  eyes  went 
from  her  to  him.  He  was  staring  at  her  like  a  man 
in  a  torment  of  fear — fear  mingled  with  an  over 
whelming  rage.  She  raised  her  hands  toward  him, 
I  thought  in  a  gesture  of  appeal,  and  then  she 
would  have  sunk  down  had  not  one  pulled  her  up 
and  back. 

The  rest  of  the  prisoners  had  filed  in  through  the 
open  door:  Mr.  Snow  alone  remained  of  the  sorry 
company.  At  the  appeal  of  the  shrouded  figure  I 
saw  him  jerk  his  hands  away  from  his  captors  with 
a  sudden  spasm  of  fury,  and  then  his  shaking 
elbows  went  up  at  his  sides  in  a  gesture  that 
brought  me  a  yard  out  of  my  shadow  before  I 
could  stop  myself.  No  wonder,  then,  that  I  had 
heard  nothing  more  of  my  boyhood  escapade. 

If  I  was  startled  at  that,  I  was  amazed  still  more 
before  another  ten  seconds  had  passed.  The  men 
caught  my  arm-shaker's  wrists  again  and  forced 
him  toward  the  door,  with  the  strange  woman 
plucking  at  their  coats  and  crying  something  which 
I  could  not  hear.  A  by-stander  put  out  his  hands 
and  held  her  back  while  Asa  Nickerson  went  in  behind 
Mr.  Snow  and  his  guarders  and  closed  the  door. 

Then  it  was  that  the  woman  tore  herself  free 
from  the  one  who  had  held  her  and  turned  to 
face  the  crowd  for  the  first  time — turned  defiantly, 
her  head  thrown  back  and  the  hood  fallen  upon  her 
shoulders,  her  arms  stretched  out  across  the  door 
that  had  closed  upon  our  rich  man. 

I  should  be  the  rich  man,  if  I  could  have  forever 

109 


STORM 

before  me  in  its  every  vivid  detail  the  picture  of  her 
standing  there,  her  spirit  stripped  of  all  the  nice 
veneer  of  housed  and  clothed  generations,  quivering 
with  a  raw  and  naked  passion,  violent,  unconquer 
able,  unashamed,  beautiful. 

I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  sound  among  the 
throng  even  now,  though  I  cannot  say  surely. 
There  might  have  been  a  bedlam  of  outcries,  and 
my  ears  deaf  to  them.  I  stared  at  the  little  lighted 
stage  across  the  street,  and  stared  and  stared,  and 
wondered  who  this  girl  might  be — for  the  stranger 
was  not  a  woman  grown,  but  a  girl  at  the  ineffable 
moment  of  bloom.  All  the  time  that  I  stared  I 
was  aware  of  a  voice  clamoring  within  my  brain, 
"You  know  her,  you  know  her — look,  man — you 
know  her" — and  yet  it  was  not  till  the  strain  of 
defiance  broke  her  and  she  fell  to  dancing  up  and 
down  in  a  cataclysmic  rebellion  against  all  the  mute, 
staring  people,  that  I  knew  she  had  only  to  clap 
her  hands  and  she  would  be  the  child  who  had  set 
me  raging  in  the  parlor  in  Shank  Painter. 

"Allie  Snow." 

I  did  not  realize  that  I  had  spoken  aloud  till  I 
heard  a  grunt  of  amazement  at  my  side.  An  instant 
later  there  came  the  hiss  of  a  match  on  cloth  and  a 
sudden  flare  blinded  my  eyes. 

"I  be  a  debbil— eet's  Zhoel" 

I  was  blinking  into  the  wide  and  bewildered  face 
of  my  mother's  cousin. 

"Dedos,"  I  gasped  at  him,  "drop  that  match!" 
He  crushed  it  between  his  fingers,  startled  by  my 
tone,  but  immediately  he  had  fired  another  and 

stared  up  at  me  again. 

no 


STORM 

"Beeg — damn  beeg,"  he  marveled.  "Got  a 
mustache — got  heavy — beeg  as  debbil.  W'y,  Zhoe, 
you  been  a  man!" 

Then,  before  I  could  stop  him,  he  had  cried 
out  to  the  crowd  that  I  was  there;  shouted  it  with 
an  elation  that  left  me  wondering  more  than  ever. 
They  came  pelting  up,  wrung  my  hand,  whacked 
my  shoulders  with  an  exuberant  violence,  in  a 
flickering  volley  of  match-flares.  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Gerald  Duarte,  and  knew  that  one  at  least  out 
of  the  Fortune's  crew  had  come  ashore  alive.  And 
there  was  old  Gabe  Young  dragging  feebly  at  my 
sleeve — but  I  remembered  that  he  had  been 
Duarte's  dorymate. 

It  was  all  so  strange  and  astounding  that  I  had 
not  a  word  to  answer  all  their  hurly-burly  of  ques 
tions,  but  leaned  there  against  the  wall  and  gawked 
about.  Another  figure  caught  my  eye  in  the  fitful 
illumination.  It  was  Little  John's  wife,  dressed  in 
a  thin,  flowered  wrapper,  and  with  a  woolen  muffler 
wound  tight  around  her  head.  She  looked  so 
tremulous  and  frightened  and  irresolute  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  vociferous  welcome  that  I  could 
not  help  waving  my  hands  at  her  and  crying  that 
her  man  was  alive  and  well — though  God  knows  I 
was  only  hoping  it  was  the  truth. 

Then  I  heard  Dedos  popping  his  fingers  in  a 
state  of  prodigious  curiosity  at  my  elbow.  "Wat 
deed  dey  say  down  to  d'  creek — eh,  Zhoe?  I  bet 
dey  been  glad;  eh,  Zhoe?" 

"I  haven't  been  there  yet,"  I  blurted,  and  ran 
away  from  the  noisy  company  down  the  length  of 

the  front  street,  my  head  awhirl  with  all  these 

ill 


STORM 

things  that  would  not  stand  still.  But  I  was  to 
witness  one  more  strange  sight  that  night  before  I 
came  to  raise  the  little  house  with  my  poundings 
at  the  door. 

In  the  alleyway  between  Herod's  fish-market 
and  the  clothing-store  two  figures  were  standing. 
I  had  only  a  glimpse  of  them  as  I  ran  past.  They 
stood  in  a  narrow  patch  of  light  thrown  from  the 
street-lamp  at  the  Diggs's  corner.  The  one  facing 
the  street  was  Asa  Nickerson.  How  he  had  come 
there  so  quickly  from  the  Town  Hall  basement  I  did 
not  know.  In  my  flash  he  appeared  to  have  drawn 
back  with  a  frown  on  his  face.  The  second  figure, 
with  his  back  to  me,  seemed  almost  to  fill  the 
narrow  way  with  the  bigness  of  his  shoulders. 
Two  huge  red  hands  were  up  above  his  head. 
Whether  the  gesture  was  one  of  appeal  or  of  threat 
ening  I  had  no  way  of  knowing.  The  second  figure 
was  Jock  Crimson. 


IX 

THE  TURN   OF  THE  PENNY 

I  SUPPOSE  it  should  be  the  aim  of  every  person 
who  sits  down  to  write  a  tale,  first  to  look  well 
to  the  morality  of  all  the  men,  events,  circumstances, 
and  conclusions  which  are  to  form  the  fabric  of  his 
narrative.  But  what  of  the  man  who,  having  laid 
down  the  sextant  and  marline-spike  in  all  innocence 
and  confidence  and  taken  up  the  pen  to  write  a 
record  of  his  days,  finds  himself  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  the  appalling  discovery  that  Virtue  leads 
as  checkered  a  career  as  Vice,  that  Reputability 
often  goes  about  in  strange  garments,  that  Good 
and  Evil  are  sometimes  only  the  way  the  penny 
turns,  and  that  Life  is  forever  getting  her  heroes 
and  villains  mixed.  Perhaps  you  will  retort  that 
he  had  better  get  back  with  all  speed  to  his  sextant 
and  marline-spike. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  miracle  of  my  mother's 
face,  showing  over  my  father's  shoulder,  when  they 
found  me  standing  in  the  dark  before  the  door. 

Neither  of  them  said  much.  They  led  me  into 
the  kitchen,  and  my  father,  who  was  always  as 
handless  in  the  presence  of  emotion  as  I,  went  off 
up-stairs  to  wake  Man'el,  while  my  mother  sat 
down  before  me,  with  her  knees  touching  mine, 
and  stared  at  me  without  a  word. 

113 


STORM 

"I'm  wet,"  was  the  most  momentous  announce 
ment  I  could  manage. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  She  did  not  pursue  the  subject 
further,  only  sat  and  looked  at  me. 

"It's  been  a  long  time,"  I  said,  after  a  while. 
Then  I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  because  I  perceived 
that  I  had  never  known  a  quarter  of  that  time's 
real  length. 

My  father  came  down  with  my  brother,  and  im 
mediately  was  in  an  agony  of  embarrassment  till 
he  remembered  the  fire,  which  gave  his  hands 
something  to  do.  Man'el  astonished  me.  No  one 
in  the  world  will  ever  learn  to  remember  that  young 
sters  grow  up.  Man'el  would  never  approach  my 
bulk,  but  already,  at  eighteen,  he  had  come  to  the 
stature  of  the  average  man.  He  came  forward  now, 
rubbing  the  amazement  out  of  his  eyes,  and  offered 
his  hand  with  a  gesture  that  set  me  wondering  still 
more.  I  had  seen  fine  gentlemen  off  of  yachts  in 
the  treaty  ports  shake  hands  with  the  same  gesture. 

And  then  I  marked  that  Man'el  had  grown  very 
handsome — different  from  the  rest  of  us,  who  were 
all  rather  heavy  and  blunt  of  feature.  Man'el's 
face  was  smooth,  and  the  contours  of  his  features 
regular  and  fine.  One  had  the  feeling  of  a  perfectly 
controlled  fire  burning  behind  his  olive  skin,  as  a 
man  who  might  go  to  the  uttermost  lengths  of 
passion  or  folly,  but  always  with  his  gloves  on. 
One  could  be  certain  that  he  would  play  the  game, 
not  the  game  play  him.  I  think  he  was  a  little 
ashamed  at  the  bigness  of  his  own  eyes,  for  he 
began  explaining  how  sleepy  he  was,  having  been 
to  a  dance  that  evening. 

114 


STORM 

But  I  did  not  listen  to  him  long,  for  my  head  was 
full  of  graver  speculations  and  puzzles  to  be  solved. 

"They  caught  some  smugglers  to-night,"  I 
announced. 

It  was  my  mother  who  caught  the  relevancy  of 
my  words.  She  touched  my  damp  clothing. 

"You  come  weeth  them?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.    I  got  away;   nobody  saw  me." 

I  think  she  was  engaging  with  the  moralities  of 
the  case,  for  I  observed  her  fingers  plucking  at  one 
another. 

"I  didn't  know  what  they  were  up  to,"  I  ex 
plained. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was 
easier. 

"Mr.  Snow  was  in  it,  and  Will  Hemans  and  half 
a  dozen  others,"  I  went  on.  "  I  saw  the  station-men 
putting  them  in  Town  Hall.  Then  Mr.  Snow's — : 
I  stopped,  for  I  discovered  suddenly  that  I  did  not 
want  to  talk  about  that  dramatic  tableau  on  the 
porch.  "Dedos  picked  me  up,"  I  ended,  rather 
breathlessly. 

There  was  not  a  word  for  a  minute  or  so.  I  had  a 
vague  sense  of  communications  going  back  and 
forth  between  my  father  and  mother,  without  their 
moving  or  turning  their  eyes.  In  this  animated 
hush  I  could  hear  the  dories  rubbing  noses  in  the 
creek,  and,  turning,  I  saw  Man'el  standing  at  a 
window  staring  out  at  a  crescent  moon  which  had 
come  up  to  gray  the  night.  "They  are  on  their 
guard,"  was  the  thought  that  came  into  my  head. 
Aloud  I  said,  "Dedos  wasn't  as  surprised  as  I 
thought  he'd  be.  Nobody  was." 

115 


STORM 

There  was  another  blank,  in  which  I  was  aware 
of  a  wordless  conference.  Then  my  mother  cried 
passionately : 

"But  dey  come  'bout  grave-stone.  Wat  e'd  we 
do,  Zhoe?  An'  you  a  beeg,  gran'  man  lek  thet — 
w'at  c'd  we  do,  Zhoe?" 

"Me — -a  grand  man?"  I  marveled. 

"Yes — an'  d'  town  goeen'  t'  buy  eet  'emselves." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  I  said.  "Look  here, 
mother,  just  how  many  men  came  back  off  the 
Fortune — I  mean  those  in  the  dories?" 

"Teen— weeth  you  an'  Little  Zhon." 

"Ten.  I  didn't  think  there'd  be  so  many.  Ten 
came  back — and  the  rest  of  them  I  killed."  I  was 
weary  with  this  piling  up  of  mysteries,  and  so  I 
shouted,  "Say — I  killed  the  rest!9' 

And  now  they  looked  at  each  other  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  evident  that  they  had  found  a  mys 
tery  of  their  own. 

"  W'y,  Zhoe — "  my  father  gasped,  but  my  mother 
crowded  him  out  with  her  gust  of  denial. 

"You  deed  not — you  deed  not — nobody  can  say 
thet.  Zhoe,  you  breeng  them  teen  home  alive — 
an'  you  done  eet — you  done  eet.  Else  wouldn'  thee 
gone  down  weeth  th*  vessel — eh — tell  me  thet, 
Zhoe?" 

Four  years  of  skulking  in  the  shadow  of  a  memory, 
a  hundred  dreams  of  shipmates  going  down  into 
black  water  and  stretching  fingers  in  agony  at  me 
through  the  bubbles,  a  weight  whose  awful  pressure 
I  had  almost  forgotten  to  mind — all  these  things 
rushed  in  from  the  corners  of  space  and  exploded 
with  a  noiseless  flare  somewhere  in  my  brain. 

116 


STORM 

"Gone  down — vessel?"  was  the  only  outward  echo 
of  this  internal  concussion. 

" He — don't — know!"  It  was  a  unison  as  precise 
as  a  chorus  master  could  have  wished.  They 
appeared  helpless  with  bewilderment.  It  was 
Man'el  who  came  to  their  rescue,  talking  in  his 
smooth,  controlled  way. 

"You  knew  that  po'gie-boat  that  took  you  into 
Paradise — we  found  out  all  about  it  since — well, 
three  hours  before  that  boat  picked  you  up  it  had 
cut  the  Fortune  half  in  two.  D'you  understand? — 
half  in  two.  Went  down  s'  quick  them  fellows 
aboard  probably  never  knowed  what  happened,  ex- 
ceptin'  the  watch,  an'  he  run  below  when  the 
steamer  come  at  him." 

So  that  was  why  they  were  all  so  glum  and 
wordless  in  that  steamer.  It  is  impossible  for  me 
to  give  a  name  to  the  thing  that  was  happening  in 
my  brain.  It  was  as  though  a  vast  aggregate  of 
events,  thoughts,  dreams,  men — all  the  lumber  of  a 
f our -ly ears'  passage — had  been  shaken  violently, 
like  peas  in  a  box,  so  as  to  present  an  utterly  new 
and  unfamiliar  pattern.  But  Man'el  was  going  on. 

"They  thought  it  was  worse'n  it  really  was, 
because  they  never  knowed  till  after  but  what  the 
whole  crew  was  aboard  when  she  sunk.  They 
wouldn't  even  have  knowed  her  name  if  it  wasn't 
her  stern  come  up  into  the  searchlight  for  a  second 
before  she  dove.  Couldn't  do  a  thing;  they  was 
some  damaged  'emselves — you  must  've  see." 

I  nodded.  I  remembered  now.  My  mother,  who 
had  been  bursting  with  impatience  for  some  time, 
broke  in  now  with  gesticulating  hands. 

117 


STORM 

"An'  we  hear  about  eet  nex'  day.  Oh,  Zhoe — 
Zhoe — the  peeple — the  peeple!  Fadder  see  Tony 
Silva  up-street.  *  All  gone — all  gone — ever'  las'  man 
gone  t'  bottom,'  he  says.  I  ran  up  t'  west'rd  t' 
see,  an'  thee's  women  blubberin'  right  in  street, 
'  Johnnie's  dead !'  '  Maya's  dead !'  Zhoe,  eet's  terr'- 
ble — terr'ble!  Sky  fall  down — then  I  come  home." 

That  was  all.  She  had  "come  home."  My  father 
began  to  rattle  the  grate  furiously,  as  though  the 
memory  of  that  home-coming  must  find  some  osten 
tatious  vent  or  turn  inward  and  strangle  him. 

"Really,  I  never  seen  the  town  like  it,"  Man'el 
intruded,  with  the  easy  superiority  of  the  unemo 
tional.  "For  three  days  men  went  around  whisper 
ing  in  the  front  street,  and  they  was  women  watch 
ing  on  the  dunes  clear  over  to  the  Race.  All  the 
blinds  down  in  town.  Ma  and  pa  didn't  say  a 
word  to  each  other.  Pa  stayed  down  to  the  creek 
most  of  the  time.  Ma  cooked  rotten." 

There  it  was  again — the  perfect  touch:  "Ma 
cooked  rotten." 

"An'  theen  Zherald — "  It  was  my  father,  in  a 
frenzy  to  be  on,  who  rushed  in.  But  Man'el  shoul 
dered  him  out  with  his  level  tones. 

"Then  one  morning  Gerald  Duarte  an'  Gabe 
Young  come  ridin'  up  the  road  in  a  peddler's  cart. 
Ma  was  in  the  front  room  and  see  'em.  She  come 
out  to  the  kitchen  white  's  a  ghost. 

"'What's  matter,  ma?'  I  asked  her. 

"Man'el,'  says  she,  'run  up-street  fast  's  you 
kin  an'  see  what's  happened.' 

"  So  I  did.  You  know,  Joe,  them  two  come  ashore 
at  Wellfleet  cussin'  you  up  an'  down  for  all  kinds 

118 


STORM 

of  a  devil.  An'  there  at  Wellfleet  they  found  out 
what  'd  happened  to  the  vessel,  and  by  the  time 
they  got  here — my  God! — you  was  the  biggest 
hero  anybody  ever  hear  of.  You  ought  to  've 
hear  'em  go  on.  Of  course  I  know  you  couldn't  Ve 
been  like  they  said;  why,  they  had  you  roarin' 
like  a  bull  an'  lookin'  big  's  an  elephant  an'  heavin' 
'em  all  over  the  side  with  your  two  hands.  Honest, 
they  believed  you  knowed  all  along  just  what's 
goin'  t'  happen. 

"They  wasn't  any  trouble  findin'  out  about  it. 
The  front  street  was  packed  from  Jenning's  wharf 
clear  up  beyond  Town  Hall.  Y'  see,  I  was  little  then, 
an'  I  bragged  around  so  much  I  forgot  to  go  home; 
an'  before  I  remembered,  the  Mary  Nickerson  come 
in  with  the  Cook  boys  and  Tony  Sousa  and  Ginger 
Bragg.  They  'd  picked  'em  up  inside  of  an  hour 
after  you'd  drove  'em  off  the  vessel.  They  didn't 
know  what  'd  happened  either  till  they  come  to  the 
beach,  an'  I  wish  you  could  've  see  their  faces  when 
they  hear  about  it.  Pretty  near  fell  down,  the  two 
of  'em.  When  I  come  home  an'  told  pa  and  ma 
they  didn't  seem  to  care.  Ma  took  to  watching  the 
schooners  after  that,  an'  I  guess  pa  watched  'em 
from  the  creek,  because  I  see  him  makin'  down 
there  every  time  one  hove  over  Wood  End." 

"I  t'eenk  you  come  w'en  th'  Abbie  come,"  my 
father  broke  out,  letting  the  poker  clatter  on  the 
floor  and  striding  about  furiously.  "I  see  heem 
come  een;  I  see  two  dorees  come  off,  jes'  lek 
leetle  bugs  wee  off  crost  water;  I  see  beeg  crowd 
waiteen  on  beash — run  roun',  run  roun',  leetle 
flies—" 

119 


STORM 

"He  sent  me  up-street,"  Man'el  pushed  in.  "It 
was  Joe  Bickers  an'  Buguna.  When  I  come  back 
an'  told  'em,  they  just  set  down  here  in  th'  kitchen 
and  set  and  set.  They  wasn't  any  supper.  It  got 
dark.  I  see  lights  in  the  harbor,  but  I  didn't  think 
about  'em.  I  never  see  a  night  like  that.  I  guess 
they'd  give  you  up  for  good.  We  just  waited — and 
I  didn't  know  what  we're  waiting  for — and  they 
didn't,  either.  Nothin',  I  suppose.  Come  ten 
o'clock.  'I'm  goin'  to  bed,'  says  I.  Neither  of  'em 
looked  at  me.  I  set  down  ten  minutes  longer,  and 
then  come  a  big  poundin'  at  the  front  door.  Made 
us  jump.  'I'll  go,'  says  I.  But  before  I  could 
move,  come  the  sound  of  feet  comin'  round  by  the 
wharf,  an' — " 

"  Oh,  Zhoe,  you  ought  've  see  heem!"  My  mother 
was  no  longer  to  be  lorded  out  of  it.  This  part  of 
the  story  was  hers,  beyond  all  the  rest.  "You 
should  Ve  see  heem  standeen  there  in  th'  door; 
feelled  eet  all  up,  he  deed — beeg  an'  red  an'  crazy. 
Course  thet  eez,  I  don'  know  eef  he's  crazy,  but  he 
looked  eet.  Stare  at  me.  I'm  setteen  right  there 
by  th'  stove — stare  at  me — shook  hees  beeg  feests 
in  air — blow  hees  red  sheeks  out — holler,  'Eez  you 
these  woman?'  An'  then  he  run  at  me,  an'  I  was 
sure  he's  crazy  an'  thet  th'  end  o'  me.  Fadder  jes' 
set  an'  swaller,  an'  so  deed  Man'el.  I  shet  my  eyes. 
'Eez  you  these  woman?'  he  holler  again.  Scared 
my  eyes  open.  There's  heez  beeg  red  han'  een  front 
o'  my  face  weeth  a  paper  een  eet.  I  deedn'  look. 
I  guess  I  must  've  nodded  my  head;  thet  eez,  I 
don'  know,  but  I  must  've.  I  feel  lek  I  never  feel 

een   my   life  beef  ore.     Nex'   second   he's  gone — 

120 


STORM 

beef  ore  anybody  knowed — zip !  Jes'  lek  thet — beeg 
trompeen  an'  he's  gone — an'- 

She  ended  with  such  a  queer  jerk  that  I  was 
startled.  I  looked  at  her  and  found  her  face  work 
ing  with  some  inexplicable  emotion.  She  was  staring 
down  at  the  hands  which  fumbled  in  her  lap. 
And  then  I  saw  something  which  I  could  not  believe 
I  was  seeing — my  mother  blushing.  Utterly  be 
wildered,  I  turned  to  my  father.  He  was  watching 
me.  I  have  never  known  whether  there  was  more 
of  malice  or  whimsicality  in  his  tone  when  he  said: 

"Wen  she  come  to,  she  fin'  'erself  een  that  door, 
lookin'  out  after  w'ere  he'd  gone.  She's  goin'  t* 
run  after  heem,  I  t'eenk." 

With  all  his  suave  facility  Man'el  was  not  the 
teller  of  tales  that  my  mother  was.  He  could  never 
have  made  me  see  in  detail  the  monstrous  drama 
of  that  night,  the  homely,  air-scoured  kitchen,  the 
three  mute,  immobile  figures,  the  sudden  cataclysm 
of  the  great,  flaming  animal  filling  the  doorway, 
the  volcanic  consummation  of  his  errand,  the  con 
cussion  of  his  departure  into  the  night,  the  trouble 
of  that  mysterious  and  occult  power  of  his  which 
now  for  the  first  time  had  come  to  my  knowledge. 
And  Man'el  would  never  have  ended  the  chapter 
as  my  mother  did,  with  one  brief,  momentous 
sentence: 

"Then  I  read  your  letter." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  as  there  should 
have  been,  before  Man'el  spoke. 

"They  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Why, 
you  ought  to  've  see  'em  here  in  the  kitchen,  night 

after  night,  wonderin'  and  wonderin'  to  each  other 

121 


STORM 

why  it  was  you  didn't  want  folks  to  know.  Pa 
used  to  come  down-street,  after  he'd  hear  'em  all 
praisin'  up  the  great  Joe  Manta,  an'  you'd  think 
he'd  bust  open  with  wantin'  to  holler  that  you're 
alive.  You  know  them  crazy  people  up-street  kep' 
getting  you  bigger  an'  bigger  an'  more  of  a  hero 
every  day.  An'  then  they  was  going  to  put  up  a 
moniment  for  you  in  the  graveyard,  an'  come  out 
to  see  what  ma  and  pa  wanted  onto  it.  Well,  that's 
too  much  for  ma.  'Zhoe  ain't  dead,'  she  hollers 
at  'em.  They  were  took  aback.  Wanted  to  know 
where  you  was.  '  Out  West,'  says  ma.  How'd  you 
get  there?  Too  much  for  her.  She  made  out  some 
thing  was  burning  in  the  kitchen,  an'  when  she  come 
back  she  said  you'd  been  picked  up  by  a  vessel 
bound  out  for  Calif orny.  And  that's  all  she  knew. 
But  after  time  'd  gone  they  wanted  to  know  some 
more.  Pa  an'  ma  have  set  in  the  kitchen  here  a 
hundred  nights,  makin'  up  things  you'd  done.  You 
was  mate  on  a  whaler.  Ever'thing  you  touched 
turned  out  good.  You  been  skipper  in  three  differ 
ent  fishermen  out  there.  You  been  to  Chiny 
twict— " 

"I  have,"  I  agreed.    It  shook  him  a  little. 

"They've  had  you  all  the  way  around  the  world," 
he  went  on. 

"That's  right,"  I  nodded. 

He  stared  at  me  with  his  mouth  open.  I  had 
gotten  under  his  smooth  guard  at  last. 

"For  God's  sake,  where  you  been?"  he  marveled. 
And  then  I  realized  that  they  had  been  kinder  to 
me  than  I  had  been  to  them. 

So  I  began  at  the  beginning  and  told  them  the 
122 


STORM 

story  of  my  wanderings.  You  must  think  how 
they  sat  before  me,  my  father  and  my  mother,  and 
imagine  how  they  leaned  forward  eagerly  to  catch 
the  last  syllable  of  it.  And  then  perhaps  you  will 
understand  why  I  dwelt  longer  on  the  bright  and 
glamourous  episodes  of  my  adventure  and  left  the 
grayer  ones  unsung.  It  may  be  that  I  embroidered 
a  little — perhaps  I  had  been  a  ship-commander — 
they  liked  it  so.  There  was  that  Lily  Thinker. 
What  if  I  translated  her  into  their  understanding 
as  a  person  of  some  importance  in  her  own  country? 
They  looked  at  each  other  with  gleaming  eyes. 

When  I  came  to  an  end  the  windows  were  gray 
with  the  premonition  of  day.  None  of  us  had 
changed  posture  for  two  hours  except  Man'el,  who 
had  shifted  about  the  room  continually,  as  if  in 
protest  that  my  narrative  did  not  interest  him  more 
than  it  should. 

"And  then  I  came  home,"  I  concluded. 

The  dawn  came  forward  with  its  inexorable  rush 
of  cool  fire.  My  father  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"W'at  you  goeen  do  now,  Zhoe?" 

I  had  been  wondering.  I  got  up  and  went  to  the 
window  over  the  wharf.  Across  on  the  Truro  shore 
the  dunes  stood  up  in  a  long,  low,  blue  wall,  with 
a  cornice  of  flame.  The  world  looked  thin  and  dry 
and  brittle;  even  the  near  water  appeared  a  sheet 
of  some  mysterious,  pellucid,  corrugated  metal.  I 
had  seen  it  so  on  another  morning,  when  I  was  a 
boy. 

What  was  I  going  to  do? 

I  moved  to  the  western  window.  To  the  right 
lay  the  First  Ridge,  with  its  little  yellow  trails 

9  123 


STORM 

climbing  over  it  to  duck  into  the  back  country — the 
back  country  which  had  one  day  known  a  pirate 
and  a  desperado  and  a  red  Indian  and  a  squire  of 
dames,  and  all  of  them  sometimes  ran  home  to  the 
little  house  by  the  creek,  frightened  out  of  his  wits 
by  the  dark.  It  was  along  the  farthest  track  I 
could  see — the  one  over  Pink  Hill — that  I  had  run 
away  with  a  tiny  girl  who  jumped  up  and  down  on 
her  toes  and  clapped  her  hands  and  made  a  fool 
of  me. 

What  was  I  going  to  do? 

My  eyes  came  back  to  the  town.  By  the  fortune 
of  perspective,  the  whole  three-mile  arc  of  Old 
Harbor, was  shut  up  in  a  little  triangle,  crammed 
full  of  wharves  and  masts  and  houses  and  spires — 
as  if  by  its  own  gesture  to  shield  its  life  and  its 
traditions — and  one  of  those  traditions  was  Joseph 
Manta.  He  was  the  hero  of  an  epic  storm,  the 
bright  and  glamourous  figure  of  a  romance,  a  dream 
of  opulence  and  power  and  magnificence,  far  away 
in  the  core  of  the  sunset.  And  now  I  had  come 
again,  to  blow  away  with  the  breath  of  actuality 
the  luminous  aura  about  that  figure.  I  turned  to 
my  father  and  mother. 

"I'm  going  back  and  marry  Lily  Thinker,  in 
London,"  I  said* 


X 

EIGHT   BELLS   OF  A   QUIET   NIGHT 

I  HAD  come  back  to  Old  Harbor  on  the  four 
teenth  day  of  April.  Now,  on  the  thirtieth  of 
May,  I  stood  on  Long  Wharf  and  watched  the 
townspeople  throw  their  pathetic  garlands  into  the 
water.  But  first  they  had  been  up  over  Pink  Hill 
to  read  their  service  and  lay  flowers  on  the  graves 
of  the  Old  Harbor  men  who  had  gone  to  the  war. 
After  the  service  Mr.  Snow  had  made  a  speech. 
The  townspeople  had  asked  him  to  speak  because 
it  was  somewhat  of  an  honor  in  Old  Harbor,  and 
they  were  trying  in  many  ways  just  now  to  show 
him  how  sorry  they  were  for  the  mistake.  That  is 
what  it  had  been — a  distressing  blunder.  The 
selectmen  had  found  out  about  it  the  day  after 
that  night  in  the  Town  Hall  jail,  and  they  had 
spread  the  news  assiduously.  Their  discovery  was 
that  the  Wood  End  crew  had  picked  up  the  rich 
citizen  in  the  back  country — strolling  innocently. 
They  had  been  dumb-heads,  that  was  all.  Mr. 
Snow  was  so  shaken  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
explain  that  night.  A  deplorable  episode.  I  won 
dered.  But,  after  all,  it  was  none  of  my  affair.  I 
had  had  my  fingers  in  the  same  pot. 

The  townsfolk  were  very  serious  over  their  grave- 

125 


STORM 

decorating,  standing  with  heads  uncovered  and 
bowed  in  the  presence  of  a  great,  heroic,  and  tragic 
act.  But  afterward,  when  they  had  trooped  down 
behind  the  band,  with  Ed  Cook  in  the  lead,  blowing 
prodigiously  into  a  cornet,  one  was  conscious  of  a 
still  deeper  note  in  the  crowd.  Over  there  behind 
Pink  Hill  the  war  was  dead  a  third  of  a  century 
ago,  but  here  on  Long  Wharf  they  stood  upon  an 
immutable  frontier  and  faced  a  war  that  would 
never  end  till  the  death  of  the  world. 

I  shall  never  forget  them,  leaning  over  and 
dropping  their  handf uls  of  blossoms  into  the  littered 
water.  I  remember  most  vividly  a  little  boy  who 
stood  not  far  from  me  with  a  still  smaller  girl,  no 
more  than  a  baby,  by  his  side.  The  baby  howled 
bitterly  when  the  boy  whispered  for  her  to  throw 
down  the  little  bunch  of  Mayflowers  she  clutched 
in  her  tiny  fist.  Then  he  tried  to  shake  them  out, 
and  the  baby  howled  louder;  he  reddened  painfully 
at  the  looks  of  the  people  about  and  hustled  her 
away  out  of  sight,  abashed  and  exasperated.  A 
moment  later  I  heard  Mr.  Small,  the  selectman, 
drone  out  the  name  of  those  two  children's  brother. 
It  gave  me  a  queer  shock,  happening  so.  I  had 
not  known  he  "had  gone"  that  year.  Some  one 
had  dropped  a  broken  wild  rose  near  my  feet.  I 
picked  it  up  and  let  it  fall  in  the  water  for  Roy 
Atkins.  I  used  to  play  robbers  with  him. 

And  then  I  had  another  strange  shock.  I  had 
thrown  that  flower  over  as  an  outsider — a  spectator. 
I  had  played  the  role  of  the  opulent  loiterer  in  my 
own  town  so  industriously  that  it  was  no  longer  a 
role.  The  six  weeks  since  I  had  come  had  drifted 

126 


STORM 

by  in  a  radiant  emptiness,  and  now  I  was  going 
away  again,  back  to  my  mythical  place  in  the 
retinue  of  Fortune,  almost  as  truly  an  alien  as 
though  this  bright  interlude  had  been  but  a  visit 
in  a  foreign  land.  I  had  played  to  my  parents' 
story  with  such  a  whole  heart  that  I  had  taken  even 
myself  in.  I  had  even  begun  to  invest  that  casual 
Lily  Thinker  with  the  garments  of  romance  and 
throw  about  her  the  glamourous  mists  of  beauty  and 
position.  I  loved  to  hear  other  people  talk  of  her 
(for  all  of  this  had  gone  abroad),  and  I  enjoyed  the 
thought  of  being  bound  to  her  by  my  word  of 
honor.  Once  I  had  started  to  write  to  her,  but  had 
ended  by  going  out  to  sit  on  the  sand. 

"It  will  surprise  her  all  the  more,"  was  what  I 
had  said  to  myself.  Thinking  of  it  now,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it  would  have  surprised  Lily  Thinker. 

Now  the  ceremony  of  the  flowers  was  over;  the 
tide  had  withdrawn  far  out  on  the  flats  like  an 
unpropitiated  deity,  leaving  the  multi-colored  sacri 
fices  stranded  among  the  piles,  and  the  crowd  began 
to  heave  slowly  along  the  wooden  causeway.  A 
slap  on  my  shoulder  brought  me  jumping  about  to 
face  my  mother's  cousin,  who  grinned  broadly  at 
the  start  he  had  given  me. 

"  Hullo,  Zhoe !"  he  bawled  at  me.  "  You  reemem- 
ber  you  come  my  house  supper  t'-nigh' — eh,  Zhoe?" 

"Sure;  Fin  not  forgetting."  The  Handkerchief 
Lady's  daughter  had  bound  me  for  this  night  a 
week  back.  "Sure,  Dedos,  I'll  be  there." 

He  slapped  me  again,  fired  a  parting  salute  of 
fingers  at  me,  and  drifted  away  with  the  tide  of 
people. 

127 


STORM 

"Dedos,"  I  called  after  him,  but  he  was  already 
too  far  away  to  hear.  A  sudden  and  unaccountable 
longing  to  hear  the  big,  wide,  good-natured  fellow 
say  a  few  more  words  had  taken  hold  of  me.  After 
all,  he  was  the  nearest  friend  I  had. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  I  sneered  at  myself.  But  the  fact 
remains  that  I  could  not  help  turning  to  follow 
him  with  my  eyes.  And  the  further  fact  remains 
that  I  did  not  follow  him  far. 

Allison  Snow  was  standing  not  more  than  twenty 
feet  away,  looking  at  me.  My  eyes  caught  hers 
squarely  before  either  of  us  had  time  to  do  any 
thing  with  them,  and  so  we  stood  and  stared  at  each 
other  for  a  passage  of  time,  both  caught  in  the  same 
trap  of  embarrassment.  Why  either  of  us  should 
have  been  awkward  is  a  mystery.  It  may  have 
been  because  I  had  become  a  tradition.  It  may 
have  been  because  of  her  father.  Or  it  may  have 
been  simply  that  she  had  not  seen  me  since  I  came 
back,  nor  I  her  since  she  stood  on  the  Town  Hall 
porch.  Whatever  it  was,  this  senseless  fluttering 
exasperated  me,  and  yet  even  in  my  exasperation 
I  can  remember  thinking:  "How  strong  she  is!" 
She  did  look  strong.  The  wind,  fresh  in  the  south 
west,  made  a  sort  of  distracted  halo  of  her  brown 
hair  and  modeled  the  contours  of  her  straight 
figure  as  though  she  had  been  one  of  those  Victories 
that  the  old  Greeks  loved  to  make  stone. 

I  suppose  all  this  must  have  passed  in  the  merest 
breath  of  time.  Then  the  eddy  of  humanity  which 
had  brought  her  there  licked  about  here  again  and 
carried  her  away  out  of  sight. 

Across  a  little  water  space  to  the  south  ran  the 

128 


STORM 

skeleton  of  Crowell's  wharf.  Alongside  of  the 
wharf,  with  a  red  belly  forsaken  by  the  tide, 
Crowell's  packet-schooner  canted  her  masts  at  a 
disconsolate  angle  over  the  shed.  Two  days  more — 
three  tides,  to  be  more  accurate — and  I  would  go 
aboard  of  that  schooner  and  sail  away  to  the  city 
and  to  the  rose-colored,  beckoning  world  beyond. 
Already  departure  had  laid  hold  of  me  with  its 
sense  of  imminence  and  bustle. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  think  about  her?"  I  found 
myself  asking.  It  was  a  perfectly  reasonable  ques 
tion.  Why  should  I  not  drain  the  last  thrill  out  of 
my  harlequinade,  when  I  was  paying  the  price  of 
exile  for  it? 

"What  a  queer  look  she  had!"  I  reflected,  and 
then  I  went  on:  "She's  so  slim  now — and  yet  she's 
strong,"  and  then,  before  I  retreated  to  the  sym 
bolical  security  of  CrowelFs  packet,  I  had  specu 
lated:  "I  wonder  if  she  jumps  up  and  down  on 
her  toes  any  more." 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  was  my  next  observa 
tion.  There  I  stood,  like  a  mooning  scarecrow, 
all  alone  on  the  wharf. 

"Long  Wharf,"  I  pronounced,  with  a  studied 
solemnity,  "this  may  be  the  last  time  I  shall  ever 
set  foot  on  you.  Good-by." 

Then  I  walked  off,  with  Tim  swaggering  at  my 
heels,  and  found  a  crowd  of  holiday  loafers  in  the 
back  room  of  Miah  Swift's  store.  But  before  I 
took  the  seat  which  was  hastily  cleared  for  me  I 
must  step  to  the  window  and  look  out  at  the  oblique 
masts  of  the  packet  beyond  Crowell's  wharf  once 
more.  I  have  heard  of  folks  who  run  away  and 

129 


STORM 

suck  an  orange  whenever  the  craving  for  rum  lays 
hold  of  them,  and  thus  effect  a  cure.  It  is  not  im 
possible  that  the  red-bellied  packet  was  playing 
the  orange  that  afternoon.  Henry  Hemans,  whose 
father  had  "gone  away"  as  a  consequence  of  a 
certain  night-landing,  marked  the  direction  of  my 
look  and  commented  upon  it. 

"Reckon  you  wouldn't  like  t'  see  thet  there 
vessel  git  away  'thout  you;  hey,  Manta?" 

"Guess  I  wouldn't,"  I  gave  him  back,  with  an 
uncalled-for  vehemence.  "Mean  a  good  deal  to 
me — out  there.  Why — " 

After  these  years  I  can  be  amused  at  that  after 
noon.  I  must  have  made  a  ludicrous  picture,  sitting 
there  in  the  midst  of  hanging  mouths  and  singing 
the  swan-song  of  my  glories.  I  was  like  a  man  far 
gone  with  liquor  who  is  mistily  conscious  that  he 
ought  to  stop  but  cannot  co-ordinate  his  members 
to  the  mere  physical  business  of  stopping.  I  over 
did  the  thing  absurdly,  but  it  did  not  matter  to 
Swift's  back  room.  The  miraculous  gift  of  tongues 
had  come  upon  me.  It  is  strange  to  think  now 
that  I  myself  did  not  know  why  it  all  hap 
pened. 

The  first  voice  to  break  in  upon  my  harangue  was 
the  shrill  one  of  a  very  small  girl  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  whined  to  Man'el  Costa. 

"Ma  wan's  you  t'  come  home  t'  supper — gitt'n 
cold,  she  says — 'spas'  six,  she  says." 

If  I  did  not  stagger  on  my  legs  when  I  went  out 
of  that  room,  at  any  rate  my  brain  was  as  drunk 
as  drams  could  ever  have  made  it.  All  the  way  to 
Shank  Painter  I  strode  the  middle  of  the  thorough- 

130 


STORM 

fare,  and  Tim  might  have  slain  a  score  of  cats, 
unthwacked,  for  all  I  knew  or  cared. 

And  so  I  came,  a  citizen  of  clouds,  to  the  door  of 
Dedos's  house.  And  there  was  Agnes  holding  it 
open  and  turning  a  frown  of  exaggerated  reproach 
upon  me  because  I  was  so  late.  Ever  since  I 
had  returned  I  had  had  an  uneasy  feeling  about 
Agnes.  She,  of  all  in  Old  Harbor,  had  refused  to  be 
astounded  over  me  or  blinded  by  the  glare  of  my 
circumstances.  Every  one  in  town  knew  by  this 
time  that  I  had  come  ashore  from  the  Ocean  Foam, 
but  Agnes  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  wonder 
why.  She  treated  me  no  differently  from  Tony 
Manta's  boy,  and  I  more  than  half  suspected  that 
she  saw  through  me  all  the  time. 

Now  a  drunken  man  is  always  ready  to  fall  into 
a  rage  at  his  neighbor  who  sniffs  the  air.  I  have 
noticed  it  many  times  and  smiled  a  superior  smile 
at  the  generic  frailty.  But  now  that  my  own  head 
was  going  around,  I  felt  perfectly  justified  in  my 
irritation  at  Agnes's  air  of  wisdom.  I  am  afraid 
I  was  not  too  civil.  I  am  afraid  I  swaggered  past 
her  with  very  little  ceremony,  calling  for  Dedos. 
Dedos  was  safe  company.  The  good  fellow  nearly 
lost  his  eyes  whenever  they  fell  upon  me. 

"He's  in  the  parlor  with  the  children,"  Agnes 
told  me.  She  was  hanging  to  my  elbow,  not  at 
all  daunted  by  my  boorishness,  looking  up  into 
my  face  with  that  inscrutable  smile  she  had  made 
up.  In  sheer  bravado  I  looked  down  at  her  and 
said: 

"I've  got  some  news  I  want  to  tell  him — about 
a  ship  of  mine — in  the  wool  trade." 

131 


STORM 

"He's  in  the  parlor,"  she  repeated,  with  a  queer 
insistence. 

So  I  blundered  into  the  little  white-painted 
parlor  with  a  fine  tale  of  a  fabulous  barkentine  of 
mine  that  sailed  a  sea  of  gold,  and  there  I  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  where  my  rush  had  carried 
me,  and  saw  my  golden  sea  whirl  up  to  the  zenith, 
along  with  the  fabulous  barkentine,  and  vanish  in 
the  smoke  of  my  own  consternation. 

The  Handkerchief  Lady's  daughter  had  been 
smiling  so  mysteriously  because  she  had  invited 
Allie  Snow  to  supper  that  night  along  with  me.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  was  some  whimsical  sentiment 
about  another  momentous  meal,  when  she  had 
bundled  two  children  out  of  the  back  door  in  a 
tremble,  that  had  set  her  about  this  secret  enter 
prise.  At  any  rate,  there  sat  Allie  Snow,  as  startled 
and  red  as  I.  Dedos,  without  the  dimmest  idea 
of  what  was  going  on,  chuckled  with  vast  convul 
sions  and  tousled  the  two  children  on  his  knees, 
little  Joe,  and  Aggie,  smaller  still. 

"Tell  them  about  your  ship,"  was  Agnes's  part 
ing  thrust  as  she  hurried  away  to  the  kitchen  and 
supper. 

"Wat  about  eet,  Zhoe — w'at  about  a  sheep, 
eh?"  Dedos  wallowed  in  his  exuberant  curiosity. 
But  I  was  staring  at  the  girl  and  wondering  des 
perately  what  I  was  to  say.  The  last  time  I  had 
spoken  to  her  was  when  she  stood  on  the  rim  of  a 
gully,  a  compassionate  child  with  too  long  a  neck, 
and  I  had  yelled  at  her  to  go  away. 

"I  saw  you  down  at  the  wharf  to-day,"  was  what 
I  managed. 

132 


STORM 

"Yes,"  she  said.  She  had  herself  well  in  hand 
now  and  looked  straight  at  me  out  of  her  gray  eyes. 
"It's  the  first  time  I've  been  out  since  the  night 
my  father  was  put  in  jail,  and  I  only  went  because 
I  wanted  to  see  you  before  you  left.  It  seemed  a 
pity  to  miss  you  on  account  of  something  that 
really  ought  not  to  matter  at  all." 

She  took  the  breath  out  of  me  with  her  plain 
dealing.  An  instant  before  she  had  been  as  flustered 
as  I.  And  then  I  remembered  she  had  always  been 
queer  about  that,  even  when  she  was  a  baby  in  this 
very  room  and  juggled  emotions  as  a  prestidigitator 
would  manipulate  his  rabbits.  I  discovered  that 
I  was  still  standing  like  a  dummy  in  the  center  of 
the  floor  and  vaguely  conscious  that  Dedos  had 
been  waving  a  chair  at  me  for  some  time  past. 

"Tell  us  about  the  ship,"  Allie  went  on.  "I've 
sat  behind  the  blinds  at  home  and  heard  the  people 
in  the  street  talking  about  Joe  Manta's  ships,  and 
all  alone  there  I've  said  to  myself,  'That's  the  boy 
who  ran  away  with  me  once,  and  we  got  lost.'  And 
I've  wondered  and  wondered  what  you'd  be  like — 
grown  up  and  a  great  man.  That's  why  I  wanted 
to  see  you." 

I  felt  more  like  a  fool  than  I  have  ever  felt  before 
or  since.  Her  frankness  appalled  me.  I  had  a 
desire  to  match  it — to  blurt  out  that  I  had  not 
so  much  as  a  dory-thwart  to  my  name — that  I  was 
a  vagabond,  a  skulker  surprised  by  fame,  a  jackal 
in  lion's  clothing.  A  crazy  impulse  to  tamper  with 
the  serenity  of  that  oval  face  swept  me  irresistibly 
on  toward  words,  and  I  really  believe  I  should  have 
demolished  all  my  fine  world  of  pasteboard  then 

133 


STORM 

and  there  had  Agnes  not  stood  in  the  doorway 
telling  us  to  come  to  supper. 

At  table  I  was  made  acquainted  with  another  of 
her  moods — or,  rather,  renewed  an  old  acquaintance 
— for  it  was  the  tiny  girl  with  the  curls  and  the  ges 
tures,  and  the  hands  forever  on  the  point  of  clap 
ping,  who  ate  that  meal  with  us.  I  reflected 
moodily  how  she  had  spoiled  my  other  party  and 
was  at  it  again  now  and  in  the  same  way.  I  was 
out  of  it.  Allie  carried  the  talk  where  she  would, 
and  she  took  the  children  along  with  her,  and 
Agnes  and  Dedos  followed  the  children,  leaving 
me  to  slouch  and  sulk  alone  over  my  food,  to  wonder 
why  she  never  looked  at  me,  and  to  bite  my  lips 
over  the  radiant  loveliness  of  her. 

"I've  got  to  run  right  home  now,"  she  cried, 
when  we  had  folded  our  napkins.  "Somebody's 
coming  over  this  evening,"  she  explained,  to  Agnes's 
pucker  of  surprise. 

And  then,  while  I  was  still  trying  to  understand 
the  bitterness  in  me,  Agnes  did  a  thing  which  I 
think  she  had  had  in  mind  since  she  asked  the  two 
of  us  to  come.  It  was  a  part  of  the  sentimental 
memory  of  that  other  time.  She  had  us  both 
bundled  out  of  the  back  door  before  I  could  think 
what  she  was  about,  and,  standing  on  the  door-step 
above  us,  she  whispered,  "Joe — quick — run  with 
her  as  fast  as  you  can." 

Instinctively  my  eyes  went  to  the  back  fence, 
and  then  to  the  lane  through  which  we  had  scurried, 
and  beyond  to  Pink  Hill,  looming  in  the  waning 
sky;  then  they  came  back  and  found  the  door 
closed  upon  the  pair  of  us,  and  last  to  my  com- 

134 


STORM 

panion.  It  was  the  little  girl — as  miraculously 
certain  as  the  fact  that  it  could  not  be.  Her  face 
was  near  in  the  dusk,  her  eyes  looking  into  mine 
with  the  old  alluring,  beckoning,  flaming  challenge 
to  adventure.  In  a  breath  she  was  a  dozen  dancing 
steps  away  toward  the  fence,  and  I  could  see  her 
only  as  a  dim  silhouette  in  the  quiet  gloom.  I 
heard  her  voice,  very  breathless  and  low,  "Pa-Jim." 

It  was  impossible — all  the  laws  of  time  and  phys 
ical  change  cried  out  against  it — but  it  was  the 
voice  of  a  child  of  six  that  came  to  me  through  the 
shadows.  My  throat  was  dry,  and  I  was  conscious 
of  something  hammering  violently  at  my  chest. 
The  night  was  suddenly  alive  with  the  insistent 
whispers  of  the  back  country.  The  dunes  were  on 
the  march.  I  stood  where  she  had  stood,  without 
knowing  I  had  moved.  But  she  had  gone  as  quickly. 
It  was  from  behind  the  fence  that  I  heard  the  low 
call  again. 

"Pa-Jim!" 

And  now  I  have  come  to  the  point  where  I  must 
set  down  a  very  shameful  thing — the  chronicle  of  a 
monstrous  failure.  If  only  it  had  not  been  so 
quiet,  or  if  only  the  hour  had  not  fallen  just  then, 
perhaps  I  might  have — no — I  might  not.  The 
truth  must  be  faced:  with  all  my  romantic  vapor- 
ings,  I  could  never  be  anything  more  than  a  man 
of  reason.  So  the  hour  fell,  the  night  was  quiet, 
and  out  in  the  cove  some  ship's  clock  struck  eight 
bells.  It  broke  the  poignant  spell  with  a  snap  and 
brought  me  tumbling  out  of  an  impossible  dream 
to  land  upon  a  solid  earth  of  ships  and  oceans,  of 
that  fragile  hero-fame  that  I  was  going  away  to 

135 


STORM 

save,  of  Lily  Thinker,  of  the  princely  chandlery 
business,  and — I  am  afraid — of  some  one  who  was 
"coming  over  to-night"  to  the  apple-green  house 
in  the  street  of  the  three  angles. 

"Pa-Jim."  There  was  the  faintest  flutter  of 
misgiving  in  it  this  time. 

"You  must  go  home,"  I  said.  "You  know  you 
must  go  home.  Come." 

She  came  immediately,  stepping  to  my  side  out 
of  a  night  suddenly  cold  and  dead,  and  there  was 
not  a  hint  of  what  had  gone  away  in  her  face.  She 
was  quiet  and  collected  and  gracious.  The  past 
hundred  seconds  had  never  happened. 

"They're  so  nice — they're  the  nicest,"  she  said, 
nodding  back  at  the  house  as  we  passed  out  of  the 
gate. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  her,  stupidly. 

We  walked  hurriedly,  both  anxious  to  be  through 
with  it.  My  sense  of  failure  was  so  intolerable  that 
I  felt  I  must  say  something,  even  if  the  something 
were  nothing,  so  that  I  could  rattle  it  off  fast  to 
fill  up  the  impossible  silence.  But  I  could  think  of 
nothing  in  the  world  to  rattle  off.  I  floundered 
desperately  among  subjects,  and  in  the  end  must 
come  back  to  her  last  words. 

"Yes,"  I  blurted,  "they're  nice  people.  I  remem 
ber  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  them  together — in  the 
hollow  beyond  Paul  Dyer's  fields.  I  wonder  if 
you  know  the  place — " 

She  nodded. 

"In  that  hollow.  It's  a  pretty  place — that  hol 
low — the  one  beyond  Paul  Dyer's  fields.  [Why  did 
I  hark  back  to  that?]  I  don't  think  there's  a 

136 


STORM 

prettier  place  in  the  back  country.  No,  I  don't. 
I — I — you  know,  I  believe  I'd  like  to  see  it  again 
before  I  leave— 

I  waited  for  her  to  speak  with  a  curious  contrac 
tion  at  the  throat,  as  though  there  were  a  wire 
tightening  about  my  neck.  But  she  said  nothing, 
only  nodded  her  head  and  smiled. 

"I — I — look  here,"  I  floundered.  "You  know, 
I  believe  I'll  go  out  there  to-morrow — to-morrow 
afternoon — to  the  hollow  beyond  Paul  Dyer's 
fields." 

I  found  myself  puffing  as  though  I  had  run  a  mile 
in  heavy  sand.  I  would  have  given  all  I  ever 
hoped  to  have  if  she  would  have  made  some  sign. 
But  she  was  looking  straight  ahead,  and  I  could 
only  peer  and  marvel  at  the  beauty  of  her  dim 
profile. 

So  we  came  into  the  street  of  the  three  angles 
and  approached  the  apple-green  house.  The  build 
ing  had  lost  its  features  in  the  gloom,  but  my  ears 
caught  the  faint  crying  of  rockers  from  the  direction 
of  the  side  porch.  Mr.  Snow  was  there.  He  was 
there,  rocking  in  the  old  chair,  most  of  the  time 
now.  It  was  queer  how  the  insides  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  him  since  that  "mistake."  One  had 
the  feeling  that  here  was  a  frail  shell  which  might 
be  expected  to  crumble  into  dust  at  any  moment. 
There  was  even  a  rickety,  shattery  quality  to  his 
complaining  which  crept  through  the  air  now. 

But  I  was  listening  to  another  sound,  the  rhyth 
mical  thud-thud  of  boots  following  behind  us.  The 
certainty  grew  upon  me  that  here  was  the  one  who 
was  "coining  over  to-night."  I  was  taken  with  a 

137 


STORM 

reasonless  thirst  to  turn  and  put  a  quiet  to  that 
insistent  thudding.  Instead  I  mumbled:  "I've 
got  to  go.  Good  night." 

But  before  I  went  I  must  mutter  once  again, 
"I  believe — I'll  go  and  see  that  hollow  to-morrow — 
afternoon." 

And  still  she  made  no  sign.  She  stood  before  me, 
straight  and  slim  and  beautiful  and  sure  of  herself, 
smiled  at  me,  touched  my  hand  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers,  and  moved  away  through  the  gate. 

I  turned  back  toward  the  front  street  and  passed 
my  man  of  the  thudding  boots.  It  was  my  brother, 
Man'el. 


XI 

I   RECEIVE   DISMAL  TIDINGS 

IT  is  a  curious  thing,  the  birth  of  a  new  day, 
after  one  has  slept  soundly.  On  the  morning 
following  my  supper  in  Shank  Painter  I  woke  up 
with  a  perfectly  new-born  mind.  I  blinked  at  the 
strange  brightness  of  things;  in  an  unappreciable 
wink  of  time  I  grew  from  a  baby  to  a  man,  blinked 
again,  and  said,  "I'm  going  away  to-morrow." 

Then  I  jumped  up  and  threw  open  the  blinds  of 
the  western  window.  Now  that  was  the  initial  mis 
take.  The  western  window  opened  upon  Old  Har 
bor.  The  packet  was  there,  but  I  did  not  look  at 
the  packet  first;  my  eyes  went  to  the  very  core  of 
the  town,  where  the  tower  of  the  Central  Church 
hung  over  the  street  of  the  three  angles. 

"I  wonder  if  she's  up  yet,"  I  considered. 

My  mother  sang  in  her  peculiar  boyish  alto  over 
the  kitchen  work,  louder  than  usual,  perhaps 
because  I  was  going  away.  Man'el  sat  on  the 
wharf  below,  his  feet  swinging  idly  over  the  water. 
He  whistled.  I  tried  to  laugh.  I  had  made  a 
spectacle  of  myself  the  night  before. 

"I'm  glad  I'm  not  going  to  see  her  again,"  I 
said.  "I  couldn't  look  her  in  the  face." 

It  rang  hollow.    I  set  out  to  swindle  myself  with 

10  139 


STORM 

a  show  of  activity.  All  the  morning  I  packed 
furiously,  though  there  was  scarcely  anything  to 
pack.  I  would  put  some  old  and  useless  relic  into 
the  dilapidated  leather  trunk  and  take  it  out  again 
three  or  four  times  before  I  rushed  to  the  wharf 
and  flung  it  into  the  middle  of  the  creek. 

"I'll  not  have  time  to  go  anywhere  to-day,"  I 
assured  myself.  At  noon  I  was  hungry,  but  ate 
little.  An  unaccountable  restlessness  hustled  me 
through  the  meal. 

"Eet's  beecause  you  goeen'  away,"  explained  my 
mother,  observing  my  fidgeting. 

"That's  right,"  I  caught  at  it.    "That's  right." 

"Now  I've  to  run  up-street  and — and — see  Jim- 
mie  Dyer  about  coming  for  my  trunk,"  I  announced, 
with  a  hesitating  briskness.  "I  won't  be  gone  but 
a  minute — see  you  in  a  minute.  So  long — "  I 
was  rattling  the  gate  with  the  last  and  striding  off 
furiously  along  the  State  Road. 

I  must  have  been  a  strange  object  hurtling  pon 
derously  along  an  open  road  in  the  clear  yellow 
sunshine  of  a  perfect  afternoon,  unpursuing  and 
unpursued.  I  forged  past  a  pair  of  peddlers  in  a 
covered  cart,  and  could  hear  their  snickering  for 
fifty  yards.  I  was  vaguely  conscious  that  the  water 
to  my  right  was  unusually  blue  and  animated,  that 
the  ruffles  of  surf  were  very  white,  that  a  fresh  wind 
came  out  of  the  glittering  southwest,  and  that  the 
scrub  along  the  inland  edge  of  the  road  was  talking 
furiously  in  it.  All  this  impressed  me  merely  as  an 
aggregate  of  motion,  of  goings  and  comings,  of 
hurry. 

When  I  came  to  the  place  where  the  State  Road 

140 


STORM 

leaves  off  and  where,  a  long  time  ago,  a  man  came 
up  from  working  on  a  bulkhead  and  hailed  me  as 
"Joe  Snow,"  the  comic  memory  of  my  indignation 
that  day  brought  me  to  a  full  stop  for  the  purpose 
of  laughing.  And  while  I  stood  there  guffawing  I 
found  myself  confronted  by  a  momentous  discovery. 
Just  at  my  left  hand  lay  the  opening  of  the  First 
Ridge  trail. 

I  estimated  deliberately,  as  a  man  who  is  already 
a  fool  will  guarantee  his  own  dignity. 

"Yes,  yes.  I'll  have  time  just  to  run  over  there 
and  back." 

It  is  too  bad  I  had  not  seen  Tim,  who  was 
whoofing  away  up  the  trail  without  argument,  before 
I  spoke.  In  that  case  I  could  have  shouldered  the 
blame  on  him. 

Once  launched  upon  my  fool's  expedition,  I 
rather  went  to  pieces.  At  the  crest  of  the  first 
rise  I  waded  through  a  miniature  forest  of  hard 
wood  and  muttered,  "She  won't  be  there,  of 


course." 


Then  I  descended  into  a  model  desert  of  sand 
and  writhing  scrub,  with  Snail  Road  crawling 
across  it,  and  said,  "She  wouldn't  —  after  last 
night." 

Then  there  was  another  hill  of  hard  wood,  where 
my  caution  began  to  totter,  and  a  ravine  with 
treacherous  walls  that  upset  the  laws  of  reason 
and  my  sober  pace  at  one  lurch  and  sent  me 
pounding  headlong  through  a  damp  valley  of  ferns. 
"She'll  come — she'll  come,  as  sure  as  you're  alive, 
Joe  Manta." 

I  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  gravel-pits,  and  there 

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STORM 

was  the  yellow  thread  of  Paul  Dyer's  road  twanging 
taut  in  the  sunshine  beyond.  "She  can't  help 
coming,"  I  shouted  inside. 

Then  I  was  plowing  Paul  Dyer's  road  like  a  tow- 
boat  pressed  for  time,  throwing  out  a  bow-wave  of 
sand  on  the  leaf  mat  along  its  banks.  I  came  to 
the  top  of  the  First  Ridge  once  more,  rushed  down 
the  slope  of  the  little  pines,  veered  off  from  the 
fields,  and  stood  breathing  heavily  in  the  center 
of  the  hollow,  staring  about  with  a  very  red  face. 
No  one  was  there. 

"Joe  Manta,  you're  the  biggest  damn  fool  that 
ever  lived." 

My  hands  were  in  my  pockets,  but  I  had  a  feeling 
of  them  flapping  vacantly  in  the  air. 

"Well,"  I  railed  at  myself,  "you  were  so  wild  to 
come — here  you  are.  Now  the  next  thing  is  to  come 
to  your  senses  and  get  back  to  town." 

Having  spoken  wisdom,  I  acted  otherwise.  I 
sat  down  on  the  blueberry  mat. 

"I'll  wait  a  minute  or  so." 

I  waited  an  hour.  It  was  the  quiet  that  drove 
me  mad.  I  sat  in  a  bowl  of  sunlight  and  silence, 
with  the  rims  of  the  bowl  all  about  me  living  and 
flickering  in  a  wind  I  could  not  hear.  The  hush 
was  so  perfect  that  I  could  hear  the  commotion  of 
growth,  the  patter  of  falling  scales,  the  popping  of 
uncomfortable  twigs  making  room,  as  though  there 
had  been  another  Dedos,  in  the  small,  cracking  his 
fingers  at  an  inert  buffoon  hunched  in  the  center  of 
the  ring. 

The  sun  moved  half-way  down  to  the  rim  of  the 
bowl.  The  note  of  Town  Hall  striking  three  crept 

142 


STORM 

into  the  hollow.  I  felt  that  it  had  come  a  long  way 
and  was  weary.  And  still  I  sat — waiting. 

"Why — oh,  why  doesn't  she  hurry?"  I  found 
myself  complaining.  Then  I  grew  angry  and  gave 
her  three  minutes  to  appear  and  counted  off  the 
seconds,  stretching  out  the  last  thirty  very  long 
and  the  last  five  longer  still. 

"Now  I'll  go,"  I  growled.  But  I  did  not  move. 
I  sat  there  in  the  brooding  hush  and  waited.  Town 
Hall  struck  four  and  five  faintly. 

When  Tim  lifted  his  head  and  growled  it  was  a 
shattering  thing;  one  could  imagine  the  tottering 
of  imponderable  walls.  It  startled  me  so  that  I 
gulped. 

"Quiet— stop  it,  Tim!" 

Some  monster  had  troubled  his  dreams.  No,  it 
was  something  blue — dark  blue.  I  followed  the 
line  of  his  nose  to  the  notch.  There  was  something 
blue  there.  I  gulped  again.  It  was  gone.  Some 
one  in  a  blue  dress  had  stepped  back  out  of  sight 
behind  the  little  pines. 

The  hollow  had  come  to  life.  I  rubbed  my  hands 
together,  got  to  my  feet,  and  stretched  my  cramped 
legs.  Now  I  no  more  knew  who  in  Old  Harbor 
had  or  had  not  a  dark  blue  dress  than  did  the  King 
of  Siam.  And  yet  I  was  rubbing  my  hands  and 
wondering  what  had  made  my  throat  so  dry.  I 
was  destined  to  wonder  for  a  long  time,  and  swal 
low,  and  stare  at  the  empty  notch. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  muttered.  She  did  not 
come  again.  I  was  in  a  pretty  case  when  a  fleck 
of  blue  behind  green  boughs  had  become  the  pivot 
of  worlds. 

143 


STORM 

After  a  long  time  Tim  growled  again.  I  swore 
at  him  terribly  because  he  had  growled  at  nothing. 
The  notch  was  still  vacant.  Then  when  he  con 
tinued  to  growl  I  would  have  kicked  him,  but  when 
I  glanced  down  to  aim  my  blow  I  saw  his  nose 
pointing  to  the  right.  On  the  northern  rim  my 
eyes  caught  a  flutter  of  blue  in  a  little  bare  spot 
only  for  an  instant.  Then  it  was  gone. 

"God!    God!— what  is  she  doing?"  I  mumbled. 

I  saw  it  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  in  the  notch 
where  the  Province  Land  boundary  stone  lies,  and 
again,  farther  off,  in  the  next  yellow  scar  of  the 
Second  Ridge.  They  were  maddening  and  elusive 
glimpses.  It  was  too  devilish,  too  infernal  in  its 
refinement.  I  ached  to  crash  through  the  under 
brush,  catch  her,  crush  her  in  my  arms  and  hold 
her  face  up  to  look  at  me,  and  demand  in  the  name 
of  hell  what  she  was  about.  I  thirsted  to  hear  her 
cry  out  and  to  feel  her  body  writhe  against  my 
arms.  And  instead  I  stood  like  a  great,  sluggish 
weather-vane,  wheeling  ponderously  around  in  the 
center  of  her  harrowing  circuit. 

"Next  it  will  be  over  there,"  I  prophesied,  dully, 
facing  the  hill  above  the  gravel-pits.  I  was  right. 
She  came  out  boldly  on  the  sky-line — a  slim,  alluring 
silhouette  against  the  placid  radiance  of  the  western 
sky. 

One  may  look  back  over  the  passage  of  one's  life 
and  say  of  this  and  this  definitely — here  was  a 
turning-point.  If  only  she  had  turned  for  an  in 
stant,  waved  her  hand,  made  some  signal  after  all 
that  racking  circle,  Allie  Snow  might  have  remained 
an  episode.  But  she  made  no  sign.  She  came  to 

144 


STORM 

the  crest,  hung  there  for  a  moment  against  the 
colored  sky,  then  descended  out  of  sight  in  the 
gravel-pits.  For  the  last  time  that  day  I  said  one 
thing  and  did  another. 

"Fool— fool— fool!    Get  back  to  people." 

And  immediately  I  turned  away  from  the  town 
and  stumbled  up  through  the  cat- vines  of  the  Second 
Ridge,  nor  did  my  rush  falter  till  it  had  carried  me 
to  the  edge  of  the  dunes,  where  I  sat  down  with 
my  back  to  the  sun. 

The  dunes  wore  a  strange  face  that  evening. 
The  sun,  only  a  hand's-breadth  from  the  water  in 
the  west,  cast  a  thin  wafer  of  light  over  the  sand, 
illuminating  only  the  writhing  ridges  and  leaving  all 
the  hollows  cool  and  blue  and  quiet.  It  was  as 
though  I  sat  on  the  shore  of  a  prehistoric  sea,  caught 
by  the  wand  of  some  forgotten  sorcerer  at  the  ulti 
mate  moment  of  chaos  and  doomed  to  lie  through 
eternity,  inert  and  quiescent,  with  the  winding 
coral  spume  marking  forever  the  agony  of  its  pale 
and  rigid  breakers. 

Beyond  was  its  younger  brother,  fluid,  alive, 
shimmering,  weaving  threads  of  lace  and  throwing 
them  away,  droning  interminable  laughter  behind 
the  rampart  of  the  shore.  A  vessel  stood  to  the 
east  with  all  its  canvas  set  and  flaming  with  the 
death-fires  of  the  day.  It  struck  me  as  a  symbol  of 
oblivion,  a  healing  minister  of  space,  a  builder  of 
bulwarks  against  the  past.  Yes,  a  ship  is  the  thing 
for  a  man  who  has  dreamed. 

I  heard  a  faint  crunching  of  feet  far  off  behind  my 
back,  but  I  did  not  turn  to  look.  There  are  many 
errands  to  carry  people  here  and  there  in  the  back 

145 


STORM 

country;  that  is  why  there  are  so  many  trails. 
The  crunching  came  and  went,  as  though  the  walk 
wound  among  hollows.  By  and  by  a  shadow 
wavered  on  the  sand  to  my  right.  I  was  startled, 
till  I  marked  that  my  own  ran  a  hundred  yards 
away  in  the  flat  light,  leaping  a  dozen  blue  chasms 
before  it  came  to  an  attenuated  head.  Still  I  did 
not  turn  to  look.  I  did  not  want  that  unknown 
foot-goer  coming  about  me.  The  stain  on  the  sand 
elongated  steadily.  There  was  something  fatal 
about  its  persistent  soundless  streaming,  like  the 
shadow  of  destiny. 

The  person  who  had  thrown  the  shadow  came 
and  sat  down  beside  me  with  a  grunt  of  fatigue. 
I  turned  and  saw  that  it  was  oldj  man  Nickerson. 
But  why  should  he  be  tramping  about  the  sand 
when  folks  were  getting  up  from  supper?  He  was 
well-to-do — owned  three  "Bankers"  and  a  Channel 
boat.  He  answered  my  speculations  with  his  first 
words. 

"Coin*  over  t'  the  station  t'  see  'bout  a  man." 
He  sucked  his  pipe  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then 
repeated,  "'Bout  a  man — a  man — allus  a  man." 
There  was  a  note  of  whining  in  it.  "A  man,"  he 
went  on — "gi'  me  a  man  and  I'll  give  ye  riches. 
There's  White,  I  had  on  the  Arbitrator — drunk  him 
self  t'  death.  Then  I  git  Sam  Colman.  What's 
he  do?  Yist'day  he  comes  in  with  a  leg  broke 
along  of  the  rum,  and  his  crew  hollerin'  to  break  the 
other.  Gi'  me  a  man." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "Yes."  I  poured  a  spout  of 
sand  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 

"Gi'  me  a  man,"  he  grumbled  on.     "Gi'  me  a 

146 


STORM 

man  to  trust — a  man  thet  can  han'le  men — an9 
himself.  Ah,  Manta — you  'd  've  been  the  man 
fer  me — you  'd  've  been  the — "  He  broke  off  and 
lifted  his  palms  in  signal  of  hopelessness. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  be  doin'  thet  t'morrow,"  he  went 
on,  nodding  toward  the  vessel  offshore.  "Pleasin' 
t'  be  home  fer  a  spell,  but  a  spell's  all  a  man  can 
spare  when  he's  got  your  'fairs  t'  han'le — eh? 
Well,  ev'ybody  '11  be  sorry  t'  see  ye  go,  Manta." 

I  opened  my  hands  and  let  the  sand  patter  in  a 
faint  rain  on  my  knees. 

"I'm  not  going,  Mr.  Nickerson." 

"Wha — what's  the  matter?"  He  stared  at  me 
with  his  jaw  hanging  and  his  eyes  puffed  out. 

"Just  heard  to-day,"  I  said,  without  looking  up. 
"I — er — it  seems  I  went  in  too  heavy  on  some 
things—" 

"  Spec 'latin'?"  He  caught  at  it  with  the  greedi 
ness  of  an  old  gossip. 

"M-m-m,"  I  nodded.  Speculating  was  as  good 
a  lie  as  any. 

"Well?" 

"Wiped  out." 


XII 

I   HEAR   NO   GOOD    OF   MYSELF 

I  SAW  Crimson  once  that  summer.  It  was  a 
sultry  day  in  August.  We  lay  to  the  east  of 
Nauset.  Crimson  sat  in  the  doorway  of  his  pilot 
house,  and  I  on  the  rail  in  front  of  him,  with  the 
painter  of  my  dory  hanging  from  my  fingers.  We 
were  both  idle,  he  because  he  chose  to  be — the  best 
reason  for  anything  the  man  ever  did — I  for  the 
reason  that  all  my  dories  were  out  and  there  would 
be  nothing  to  do  aboard  the  Arbitrator  till  they 
came  in  with  their  catch.  Crimson  looked  more 
than  ever  like  the  fire-god,  with  a  great,  square-cut 
red  beard  to  hide  his  neck,  and  his  face  preter- 
naturally  fiery  under  the  oppressive  heat. 

He  had  come  out  of  the  south  at  the  head  of  a 
smoking  fleet  that  plowed  past  us  on  the  eastern 
hand.  I  had  seen  him  sitting  so  on  the  sill  of  the 
door,  waved  my  hands  at  him,  and  then  been 
amazed  to  see  the  long  black  craft  wheel  out  of 
line  and  come  to  rest  not  a  hundred  yards  from  us, 
her  funnel,  sitting  far  aft,  like  a  Spanish  muleteer 
perched  on  the  rump  of  his  animal,  breathing 
straight  upward  in  the  unmoving  air. 

"Coom  aboord,"  he  bellowed  across  the  water 
space,  without  rising.  The  rail  cut  him  off  at  the 

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STORM 

neck,  so  that  I  had  a  vivid  presentation  of  the 
Baptist's  gory  head  on  its  platter.  I  took  the  spare 
dory  and  ferried  across,  leaving  the  cook  sleeping 
in  a  coil  of  lines  forward  and  Dedos  dozing  over  the 
wheel-box  aft. 

"Thot's  a  fine-lookin'  craft,"  Crimson  rumbled, 
nodding  past  me.  I  turned  and  looked  at  her  too. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring  between  the 
horizons  that  danced  and  shivered  beneath  the 
hammers  of  the  heat;  the  tide  was  at  the  slack, 
and  the  Arbitrator  wandered  about  her  anchor-rope 
like  an  animal  at  tether.  She  was  beautiful  indeed 
with  her  long,  straight  lines  and  her  soaring,  slender 
masts — as  beautiful  as  a  lovely  woman. 

"Yep,"  I  agreed,  "and  a  good  sailer." 

"Yoo  spare  hand?" 

"Skipper,"  I  set  him  right.  I  do  not  know  why 
it  should  have  been — perhaps  it  was  some  memory 
of  that  other  night  at  "Schlinsky's  up-stairs," 
when  I  had  felt  myself  so  overshadowed  by  this 
volcanic  favorite — but  this  was  the  moment  of 
ultimate  pride  in  my  mastership.  He  was  aston 
ished,  and  struck  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  a 
blow  which  would  have  laid  an  ordinary  man 
gasping. 

"Yoo  arre  a  boy,"  he  roared. 

"I  know  it,"  I  gave  him  back,  grinning  with 
pleasure.  "You're  a  skipper  too,  I  should  say."  I 
waved  a  hand  about  the  vessel.  It  was  his  turn 
to  triumph  a  little.  He  pointed  to  the  north,  and, 
following  his  gesture,  I  marked  a  smudge  of  smoke 
lying  flat  over  the  sky-line  and  circling  half-way 
to  the  east. 

149 


STORM 

"They  arre  waitin'  t'  see  what  Jock  wull  do," 
he  said.  "High-liner  I  was  last  year  an'  th'  year 
before." 

So  he  was  more  magnificent  than  I  still.  Here 
he  sat  at  his  own  imperial  ease,  rumbling  and  color 
ful,  idling  away  the  hours,  while  vessels  ringed  the 
horizon  with  men  in  their  crow's-nests,  awaiting 
his  lordly  whim. 

"Sheep,"  he  bellowed,  "ah  sheep."  He  puffed 
and  grumbled  at  the  heat  and  slapped  his  chest, 
and  I  remember  thinking  that  with  all  his  blood  he 
must  be  boiling  alive. 

"Aboot  thot  girl — "  he  exploded,  with  a  sudden 
recollection  of  my  romantic  attributes.  "What 
aboot  thot  girl?  Hov  yoo  gone  an'  batted  thot 
chap  yet,  er — Mr. — " 

"Manta,"  I  filled  in,  "Joseph  Manta."  I  had 
supposed  he  knew. 

"Not  the  Manta?"  he  roared. 

"That's  what  they  say."  I  had  another  moment 
of  pride.  "I  guess  I  lied  a  little  to  you  down  at 
Paradise.  That  note — you  know — it  was  my  mother 
you  took  that  note  to.  And  that  reminds  me — I've 
remembered  your  name,  Jock  Crimson — "  I  took 
two  five-dollar  bills  from  my  wallet  and  put  them 
in  his  hand.  He  did  not  look  down;  he  was  staring 
at  me  in  a  strange  way.  I  had  a  feeling  that  he 
was  licking  his  lips,  though  in  reality  he  did  nothing 
of  the  sort.  His  staring  made  me  uneasy.  I  looked 
out  over  the  flat  water.  Here  and  there,  scattered 
over  a  four-mile  circle,  my  dories  crawled  like 
gray  insects,  moving  their  legs  awkwardly.  Two 
of  them  were  already  walking  toward  the  vessel, 

150 


STORM 

and  I  could  hear  another  creaking  very  near,  but 
invisible  on  the  other  side  of  the  steamer.  As  I 
watched  it  poked  a  nose  under  the  steamer's 
blunt  bows. 

"So  you're  this  Mania"  Crimson  soliloquized, 
as  though  his  other  self  were  standing  quite  a  dis 
tance  away.  He  got  to  his  feet  with  the  noisy 
abruptness  that  was  his  quality  and  stood  beside 
me.  He  brought  back  that  other  night,  four  years 
dead,  on  Paradise  dock,  by  a  gesture  of  his  big, 
hot  hand  over  my  back. 

"  Yoo  arre  filled  out  now,  lad.  Aye,  lad,  wouldn't 
yoo  an'  me  make  a  pair  wuth  th'  fisties?"  And 
again  it  seemed  to  me  he  licked  his  lips.  The  boat 
which  had  poked  a  nose  into  view  was  now  lying 
alongside,  one  of  the  crew  seated,  with  oars  hanging 
in  the  air,  the  other,  my  brother  Man'el,  standing 
in  the  stern  and  staring  up  at  the  pair  of  us  with  a 
look  in  his  eyes  as  queer  as  Crimson's  expression 
had  been.  There  was  something  in  this  business 
of  astonishment  and  spiritual  lip-licking  that  I 
could  not  fathom. 

Even  after  I  had  rowed  back  and  clambered 
over  the  Arbitrator's  rail,  mystery  proceeded. 
Dedos  was  a  party  to  it  now.  I  found  him  eying 
me  gloomily  from  the  fish-pens,  where  he  stood  to 
his  knees  in  haddock,  sorting  the  catch  that  came 
over  the  rail  in  an  opalescent  rain  from  the  dories 
below. 

"What's  the  matter,  Spare  Hand?"  I  had  never 
addressed  him  by  any  other  title  (corresponding  to 
the  'mate'  of  the  merchant  marine)  since  the  night 
I  strode  into  the  house  in  Shank  Painter,  caught  up 

151 


STORM 

little  Aggie,  and  cried  for  her  to  look  at  the  new 
"spare  hand"  of  the  Arbitrator.  Dedos's  face  was 
a  study  that  night.  At  first  he  had  believed  it  a 
joke,  because  he  used  to  laugh  ponderously  when 
my  mother  "counted  ten  on  me,"  and  say  he  would 
know  how  to  manage  me  when  he  was  a  skipper  and 
7  his  "spare  hand." 

But  now  my  hail  brought  no  answering  grin  to 
his  grim  face.  The  Bangor  moved  off  with  a  great 
thrashing  of  water  in  her  wake  and  diminished  over 
the  floor  of  the  ocean,  and  looking  to  the  north 
I  marked  an  agitation  under  the  smoky  pall  of 
the  watchers.  Dedos  dropped  his  fork  in  the  pen 
and  shook  his  pudgy  fists  after  the  retreating 
steamer. 

"Damn  heem — damn  heem — debbil — debbil!" 
There  was  such  a  flare  of  malignity  in  his  blunt  face 
as  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  It  gave  me  an 
intolerable  feeling  of  floundering  in  a  labyrinth  and 
angered  me  a  little. 

"Dedos,"  I  demanded,  "what's  the  matter? 
He's  all  right— that  fellow." 

Dedos  looked  at  me  and  shook  his  head,  then 
looked  beyond  me  and  shook  it  again  in  a  hopeless 
way.  I  wheeled  and  found  Man'el  grinning  evilly 
at  the  pair  of  us.  I  was  thoroughly  stirred  up  now 
by  this  inscrutable  pantomime  and  moved  toward 
Man'el,  but  he  started  as  I  did,  skirted  the  other 
side  of  the  deck-house  and  retired  below,  forward. 
Not  a  word  passed  between  us  the  rest  of  the  trip. 

I  saw  Allie  Snow  two  or  three  times  in  the  course 
of  that  season,  chance  meetings  on  the  street,  and 
once  at  the  funeral  of  the  gaunt  housekeeper,  to 

152 


STORM 

which  Agnes,  now  my  hostess,  had  dragged  me. 
I  shall  always  remember  that  dismal  function  in 
the  apple-green  house  with  distaste.  Allie,  subdued 
and  walled  about  with  the  formalities  of  emotion, 
was  a  stranger  to  me.  She  was  not  meant  to  have 
walls  about  her  spirit. 

I  say  Agnes  was  my  hostess  now,  for  I  had  taken 
up  my  quarters  in  Shank  Painter  after  my  first 
trip  in  the  Arbitrator.  The  vessel  was  moored  off 
the  up-street  end  of  town,  she  drew  most  of  her 
crew  from  that  quarter,  and  the  Creek,  four  miles 
down-shore,  was  hardly  feasible  in  my  present  cir 
cumstances.  I  am  afraid  there  may  have  been 
another  reason  for  the  shift.  I  have  never  been  one 
to  air  my  frailties  in  public  more  than  necessary, 
and  here  it  is  not  a  sense  of  duty  or  a  conscience 
clamoring  for  the  confessional  which  drives  me  to 
expose  sores,  but  simply  that  my  narrative  will 
not  stand  up  without  some  explanation  of  the  weak 
nesses  to  which  its  hero — that  is,  myself — is  subject. 

Now  when  I  came  into  command  of  the  Arbi 
trator,  by  what  fortune  the  reader  has  seen,  I  must 
immediately  swell  up  like  a  frog  at  his  singing, 
cover  my  head  with  a  stiff  hat  and  my  face  with  the 
frown  of  a  man  of  weight  in  the  community.  And 
a  man  of  weight  does  not  live  under  his  father's  roof. 
A  man  of  weight  has  a  place  of  his  own;  he  lives 
in  some  comfort,  surrounded  by  his  own  possessions. 
He  has  some  books  and  a  few  gewgaws.  When 
there  is  a  knock  at  the  door  he  knows  for  whom 
the  caller  is  seeking.  I  overheard  a  man  saying  to 
another  in  front  of  Swift's  store:  "I'm  going  down 
to  Tony  Manta's  to  see  Joe."  It  was  the  following 

153 


STORM 

day  that  I  went  up  to  Shank  Painter  and  bargained 
with  Agnes  for  the  corner  room  with  an  outside 
door,  "Jewing  her  up"  on  the  price,  to  mutilate  a 
phrase  of  my  boyhood. 

There  I  installed  myself  and  my  dog  and  my 
few  belongings,  and  in  that  neighborhood  I  stalked 
about,  supremely  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the 
onlookers  beheld  in  me  the  youngest  skipper  that 
ever  ran  in  the  Old  Harbor  fleet  and  the  first 
"ginny"  to  pick  a  schooner  crew  in  the  Cape.  It 
was  on  these  walks  that  I  sometimes  met  Allie 
Snow,  for  she  had  not  come  to  the  house  since  I 
took  up  my  abode  there,  at  least  not  while  I  was 
ashore.  I  wondered,  when  she  bowed  to  my  bow, 
if  she  realized  my  magnificence. 

Then  one  September  evening  I  stood  behind  a 
certain  bush  and  performed  the  same  miracle  which 
a  toy  balloon  performs  when  pricked  with  a  pin. 
It  was  only  made  the  harder  to  bear  by  the  fact 
that  I  was  feeling  especially  grand  and  important 
that  evening,  having  landed  that  afternoon  from  a 
"high  trip" — the  highest,  I  believe,  that  was 
registered  in  our  fleet  that  summer,  and  one  that 
put  the  Arbitrator  well  up  with  the  leaders.  I  had 
blundered  into  a  big  run  of  haddock  the  second 
day  out,  stocked  nearly  ninety  thousand  pounds  in 
three  "sets,"  and  made  the  market  the  evening  of 
the  fourth  day.  There  were  plenty  of  men  in  Old 
Harbor  who  growled  at  the  "ginny  skipper,"  now 
that  my  aura  had  waned  with  my  mythical  riches. 
I  would  show  these  grumblers.  I  dreamed  dreams. 

So  my  walk  of  this  evening  led  me  into  the  street 
of  the  three  angles.  I  had  never  come  this  far 

154 


STORM 

before,  but  to-night  my  overweening  pomp  gave 
me  a  taste  for  adventure.  She  might  be  standing 
at  the  gate.  I  might  stop  and  pass  the  time  of 
evening  with  her.  I  wore  a  new  suit  of  gray.  Tim 
was  fine  and  fidgety  in  a  new  studded  collar.  I 
could  imagine  myself  calling  over  her  shoulder  to 
the  old  man  on  the  porch  something  about  "Fifty- 
six  dollars  to  the  man."  No  share  like  that  had 
been  divided  in  Old  Harbor  that  season. 

I  did  not  realize  how  strongly  this  little  program 
had  taken  hold  of  me  till  I  drew  near  the  gate 
and  heard  voices  coming  out  of  the  darkness  from 
the  direction  of  the  steps.  Some  other  caller,  with 
a  program  of  his  own,  had  made  an  earlier  start. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  turn  about 
and  go  back.  Since  I  had  found  myself  forestalled 
I  was  desperately  afraid  lest  some  one  should  see 
me.  Men  of  weight  are  not  caught  in  such  a 
predicament.  But  Tim,  all  innocent  of  the  painful 
turn  of  events,  pattered  on  toward  the  gate,  his  ears 
cocked  interestedly  toward  the  voices  on  the  steps. 
I  doubled  up  in  the  shelter  of  a  bush  and  hissed 
at  him,  shook  my  fists  after  his  wagging  back,  and 
cursed  him  in  whispers  for  a  block-headed  blunderer. 

I  could  hear  Allie's  voice  from  my  precarious 
haven,  protesting  gently  against  something  the 
other  was  saying.  I  tried  to  catch  some  note  of 
the  other's  voice,  but  he  spoke  too  low  for  me  to  hear 
at  that  distance.  Allie  continued  to  ward  the 
visitor  off.  I  could  tell  by  the  bantering  in  her 
tone  that  she  was  using  a  laughing  weapon.  But 
her  opponent  seemed  persistent.  I  could  catch 
the  murmur  of  his  assault  now,  smooth,  obdurate, 

11  155 


STORM 

relentless,  not  to  be  shaken  off.  Tim  had  reached 
the  gate,  peered  in,  and  looked  back  at  me  with 
his  stumpy  tail  flapping.  I  presume  his  sociable 
soul  wondered  at  my  skulking  there  when  there 
was  company  to  be  had  within. 

There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  stop  him.  I 
decided  I  had  better  retreat  before  he  was  observed 
and  my  own  presence  suspected,  and  I  was  in  the 
act  of  backing  cautiously  out  of  my  bush  when 
there  came  an  abrupt  scraping  of  feet  on  the  steps 
and  my  stranger  got  to  his  feet. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "so  you  don't  think  you  like 
me,  Allie?" 

Now  I  knew.    It  was  Man'el. 

"But  I  do  like  you,  Man'el — very  much." 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  And  you  don't  think 
I  know  how  it  happens  you  don't — eh,  Allie?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Allie's  bantering  tone 
had  gone. 

"Oh,  everybody  knows  you're  after  bigger  fish, 
Allie.  You  haven't  made  any  secret  of  it.  I  seen 
you.  You  run  to  bulk  in  your  tastes,  eh?" 

There  was  not  a  hint  of  venom  in  his  tone.  It 
was  as  casual  as  though  he  were  commenting  on  the 
run  of  cod.  And  so  it  was  the  more  poisonous. 
Allie's  answer  was  low,  but  not  casual. 

"Man'el,  that  is  an  absolute  lie." 

"I  was  mistaken,  then."  He  could  not  have 
chosen  a  better  set  of  words  and  intonations  than 
that  to  affirm  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  Allie's 
voice  was  no  longer  low,  but  pitched  beyond  her 
own  control,  when  she  cried  out  against  him. 

"Oh,  oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  I  hated  him!    If 

156 


STORM 

you  only  knew  how  I  loathed  him — how  I  loathed 
his  bigness,  how  I  loathed  his  strength,  how  he 
makes  me  shudder  when  I  think  of  him.  Ugh! 
But  you  can't  understand,  Man'el — you  can't  see 
why." 

"Um-m-m,"  murmured  Man'el,  the  actor,  utterly 
unshaken. 

But  a  certain  man  of  weight  in  the  community 
was  shaken  and  sneaked  away  down  the  lane,  while 
his  dog  went  and  wagged  a  traitor  tail  before  the 
steps  of  the  apple-green  house. 

"You  can't  see  why — you  can't  see  why."  I 
could  not  rid  my  head  of  that.  I  was  like  my 
brother,  then.  I  was  not  her  kind.  I  was  a  "  ginny," 
and  I  could  not  understand,  therefore,  why  she 
hated  me.  I  sat  on  my  bed  in  a  bolted  room- 
that  room  I  had  been  so  vain  about — and  its  walls 
seemed  to  advance  upon  one  another  to  crush  me 
in  a  horrible,  close  cell. 

"You  can't  see — "  Ah,  but  I  could  see  now.  If 
only  I  had  something  to  tear  in  little  pieces,  some 
where  to  run,  something  to  batter —  Tim's  scratch 
ing  took  me  to  the  door,  and  when  I  saw  the  black 
ness  out  of  doors  I  went  out  as  I  was,  hatless 
and  coatless,  and  dove  into  the  back  country, 
where  I  blundered  about  in  the  brush  for  an  hour, 
whipping  some  of  the  bitterness  out  of  me  under 
the  stinging  boughs. 

I  came  to  a  little  hollow  behind  Cold  Storage 
fields  and  looked  down  into  it  with  a  pang  of 
recognition.  The  sand  had  already  begun  to  bury 
my  boulder,  but  I  could  still  see  the  upper  part  of 
it  in  the  gloom  of  the  gully.  I  remembered  how 

157 


STORM 

she  had  stood  above  me,  wringing  her  hands  and 
maddening  me  with  her  compassion,  and  at  that 
I  slid  down  and  beat  my  fists  against  the  cold  stone. 
Then  I  got  down  on  my  knees  and  strained  at  it 
with  my  shoulder.  I  was  possessed  of  a  mad  desire 
to  hustle  it  back  again  to  its  perch  on  the  bank, 
as  though  by  that  symbolical  stroke  I  might  wipe 
her  out  of  my  memory.  But  the  sand  had  clogged 
it  too  firmly,  and  with  all  my  crazy  grunting  and 
heaving  I  could  not  stir  it  in  its  bed.  It  did  tire 
me  out,  though,  and  that  was  what  I  wanted.  I 
went  home  and  slept. 

The  next  day  was  a  Sunday.  Sunday  is  a  parade 
day  in  Old  Harbor;  every  one  goes  out  in  his  best 
clothes  to  walk  up  and  down  the  front  street  or 
lean  against  the  shop-fronts  in  the  square  and  watch 
the  rest  walk  up  and  down.  A  week  ago  it  would 
have  been  a  day  of  days  for  my  strutting.  But 
now  I  had  no  taste  for  it  and  turned  up  Shank 
Painter  and  into  the  woods. 

And  after  the  way  of  fortune,  now  that  I  was  so 
anxious  to  avoid  Allie  Snow,  I  must  meet  her.  I 
came  upon  her  so  abruptly  out  of  a  wood  path 
that  there  was  no  chance  to  get  away,  so  there  we 
were  sauntering  out  the  Race  Road  together  as 
casually  as  though  I  had  never  stood  eavesdropping 
in  the  lee  of  a  bush  or  she  been  confronted  by  an 
orange-and-white  bulldog  slavering  at  her  steps 
of  an  evening. 

I  paced  along  in  solemn  silence,  for  I  could  think 
of  nothing  in  the  world  to  say.  Now  and  then  I 
observed  her  covertly  from  the  corners  of  my  eyes. 
But  there  was  nothing  there  for  me  to  see,  no  trace 

158 


STORM 

of  embarrassment  or  repression.  She  must  have 
seen  Tim  the  night  before.  I  could  have  sworn 
I  had  heard  her  speak  his  name.  And  yet  she 
called  him  to  her  when  he  and  I  came  out  of  the 
wood  path,  took  up  his  fore  paws  and  patted  his 
head.  It  puzzled  me.  At  least  she  might  have 
avoided  Tim. 

She  was  in  a  radiant  mood  to-day,  the  girl  who 
danced  and  clapped  her  hands.  She  would  never 
stay  with  me;  my  stolid  progress  was  not  hers; 
it  was  rather  with  Tim  that  she  took  her  walk, 
flickering  here  and  there,  pointing  a  fearful  finger 
into  the  gloomy  copses  to  the  dog's  clamorous 
delight.  I,  with  my  plodding,  cumbersome  spirit, 
could  never  keep  up  with  Allie  Snow's  moods.  She 
had  said  she  was  New  England.  It  was  a  lie.  That 
barren  soil  had  never  touched  her.  She  threw  back 
farther  to  the  South  than  I — if  to  be  Southern 
means  to  be  swept  with  swift  chords  under  the 
passionate  fingers  of  the  senses.  I  turned  this  over 
bitterly  as  I  tramped  along  behind  the  joyous  pair, 
Tim  beside  himself  with  his  campaign  against  the 
monsters,  the  girl  unutterably  lovely  in  the  stream 
ing  pattern  of  the  sun  and  leaves. 

So  we  came  up  the  slope  of  the  first  dune,  and 
there  where  the  road  ducks  over  to  drop  into  the 
flat  country  about  Race  Run  is  a  bench,  which 
faces  the  sea  two  miles  to  the  north.  Here  we 
sat  and  rested,  for  the  going  is  heavy  after  one  has 
passed  the  lily-ponds.  Allie  was  still  in  her  dancing 
mood,  and  still  at  her  game  of  entertaining  Tim, 
who  ran  around  and  around  the  bench  with  delirious 
outcries  while  she  made  a  pantomime  of  mortal  terror. 

159 


STORM 

As  on  another  day,  I  saw  a  vessel  far  offshore 
and  standing  to  the  east.  And  now  I  wished  that 
I  had  gone  away  in  Cro well's  schooner  the  day  I 
had  planned  to  sail.  This  laughing  girl  at  my  side 
had  made  a  fool  of  me — or,  rather,  she  had  sat 
quiescent  and  watched  me  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
How  my  antics  must  have  made  her  smile!  It  is 
an  amusing  thing  to  see  a  fox-terrier  perform  his 
tricks,  but  when  an  elephant  goes  through  the 
same  antics  the  spectacle  becomes  excrutiatingly 
comical.  I  eyed  her  furtively.  No,  she  was  beyond 
my  fathoming.  If  there  was  any  mockery  there 
it  was  too  well  hidden  for  my  eyes  to  detect.  I 
would  have  said  it  was  happiness — just  sheer,  un- 
trammeled,  singing,  dancing  happiness. 

Allie  was  looking  at  the  vessel  offshore.  I  sup 
pose  she  had  seen  me  glooming  over  it.  "Why 
didn't  you  go  back  to  England,  Joe?" 

The  question,  coming  so  abruptly  out  of  her  play 
with  the  dog,  caught  me  without  an  answer.  I 
continued  to  stare  at  the  vessel. 

"Wasn't  there  a  girl  or  something — ?" 

I  wondered  if  she  were  playing  with  me  now 
as  better  sport  than  the  dog.  She  had  put  me  in  a 
corner  where  I  must  deliver  an  answer — the  ele 
phant  must  dive  through  the  ring  or  be  goaded 
off-stage. 

"There  never  was  such  a  girl,"  I  blurted  out — 
"at  least,  not  in  that  way." 

"Oh,"  I  heard  her  gasp,  and  then,  "Oh,  Joe— 

I  wheeled,  astounded  by  her  tone. 

She   was    happy — nothing   in    the    world    could 

make  me  believe  she  was  not  overwhelmingly  happy. 

ico 


STORM 

Yet  she  could  not  be  happy — nothing  in  the  world 
could  change  that  sore  fact. 

"Allie,"  I  started.  I  was  going  to  ask  her  why 
she  had  made  that  circle  about  the  hollow  and 
never  turned  to  give  me  a  sign,  but  even  as  I  spoke 
the  first  word  I  was  shocked  by  the  look  that  had 
come  into  her  eyes.  She  had  been  flushed  with  the 
walk  and  her  riotous  play;  now,  while  I  had  turned 
away  a  moment,  her  face  had  grown  pale  and  fixed. 
She  seemed  cold  in  the  midst  of  a  warm  evening. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  in  terrible  fear  of 
something. 

I  had  noticed  the  smoke  on  the  sky-line  before 
and  had  thought  nothing  of  it.  "What's  the 
matter?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"  she  murmured.  But  she  did  not 
take  her  eyes  from  the  dingy  vapor.  I  could  only 
sit  there  beside  her,  dumb  and  wondering,  and 
watch  the  long,  low-lying  black  hulls  grow  out  of 
their  own  smoking  breath  and  run  down  toward 
the  Race  like  a  pack  of  lean  and  silent  wolves. 

"Po'gies  must  have  set  into  the  bay,"  I  said,  after 
a  long  time.  I  could  think  of  nothing  else  for 
breaking  the  unbearable  quiet. 

"Shall  we  go  home  now?"  she  asked,  getting  up 
and  moving  into  the  road. 


XIII 

YOUTH 

THERE  was  no  reason  for  the  last  trip  the 
Arbitrator  made  that  winter  other  than  the 
reason  of  Youth.  It  was  too  late,  too  hazardous — 
a  foray  into  the  lines  of  Chance  at  the  overweening 
command  of  Youth.  I  had  a  young  crew,  that  first 
year  in  the  Arbitrator.  All  the  young  and  lusty 
fellows  had  come  when  I  took  over  the  vessel, 
drawn  by  my  fabulous  character  of  adventurer; 
they  loved  the  game  of  it,  most  of  them.  With 
Dedos  snapping  me  on  I  had  driven  them  in  all 
weathers.  A  fair  amount  of  luck  and  the  sea-wise 
head  of  my  broad  "spare  hand"  had  put  us  in 
with  surprisingly  good  runs  of  fish,  and  now,  in 
the  middle  of  December,  we  were  fighting  high  in 
the  fleet  reckoning. 

There  was  no  contest  for  "high  liner"  that  year. 
Old  man  Bickers,  "high  liner"  every  consecutive 
year  since  the  Fortune  dove  to  the  bottom  with 
Mike  Kensey,  had  "salted  it  down"  early  in  Sep 
tember  with  four  "high  trips"  running  and  laid 
off  for  the  winter  the  first  day  of  December  with 
eleven  hundred  and  five  dollars  to  the  man — that 
is  how  we  reckon  in  Old  Harbor — the  share  of  a 
doryman  for  the  season.  A  high  season,  even  for 
those  days,  eleven  hundred  and  five. 

162 


STORM 

The  Arbitrator  was  the  last  of  the  fleet  out  that 
year — the  Arbitrator  and  the  Mary  Sedgwick.  We 
came  down  from  the  City  together  on  the  twenty- 
second  of  December,  a  snickering  lot  of  us  and  a 
scowling  lot  of  them.  We  left  an  hour  behind  and 
caught  them  at  the  Race,  where  they  swore  at 
us  over  their  rail  when  we  opened  ahead  of  them. 

It  had  been  a  grueling  fight  for  that  second  place, 
and  that  morning's  market  had  given  us  a  bare 
seven  dollars'  lead  over  them,  but  a  lead — that 
was  enough.  They  make  more  of  this  matter  in 
Old  Harbor  than  in  some  towns  I  know.  "High 
liner  for  such  or  such  a  year"  behind  a  captain's 
name  is  a  title  as  proudly  worn  with  us  as  a  lordlier 
one  in  a  land  of  God-given  kings,  and  even  the 
seconds  and  thirds  are  remembered. 

The  Cove  was  a  forest  of  barren  masts  when  we 
came  in,  all  the  fleet  together  for  the  first  time  in 
ten  months.  We  entered  in  all  the  state  we  could 
muster,  a  Union  Jack  at  the  stern  and  pennants  at 
the  mastheads.  It  was  a  great  day.  The  men 
cleared  out  their  bunks,  piled  the  dories  high  with 
their  belongings,  and  swept  across  the  Cove  in  a 
singing  phalanx. 

I  walked  down-street  with  Dedos  and  Man'el, 
the  rest  of  the  men  stringing  along  behind  us  and 
dropping  off  at  their  corners  where  the  women 
and  children  waited.  At  the  mouth  of  Shank 
Painter  Allie  Snow  came  toward  us.  She  had  been 
to  see  Agnes.  It  was  evident  from  the  sudden 
light  in  her  face  that  she  had  not  known  we  were 
come. 

"Uncle  Dedos!"  she  cried,   and  then  she  was 

163 


STORM 

dancing  on  her  toes.  "  I'm  glad  you're  home — in  time 
for  Mene  Jesus.  Agnes  and  I  are  going  down-street 
to  Mene  Jesus,  and  now  you're  home  you9 II  go." 

It  gave  me  a  queer  pinching  at  the  throat  to  see 
her  standing  there  so  lovely  in  the  triangular  frame 
of  the  little  up-ended  lane,  when  I  had  been  at  sea 
so  many  days.  She  was  so  frankly  glad  of  life. 

She  had  thrown  her  arms  out  with  a  gesture  of 
imperious  youth  that  made  me  wince  when  she 
appealed  to  Dedos.  Dedos  loved  it.  I  think  this 
girl  was  as  much  to  him  as  any  child  of  his  own. 
But  after  his  own  manner  he  must  frown  and  rub 
his  hands  and  shake  his  head  and  pout.  He  snapped 
his  fingers  at  us,  a  little  behind  him. 

"Dey's  younger  fellows  'n  me  t'  go,"  he  chuckled. 

Allie  turned  to  us,  but  she  was  not  so  easy  now. 
She  and  I  had  been  uneasy  together  for  a  long  time 
— an  uneasiness  for  which  I  could  not  find  a  name 
or  character — a  fluttering  of  something  in  the  air 
forever  approaching  and  never  appearing.  I  was 
never  so  good  at  acting  as  she;  I  could  not  face 
her  now  in  company,  but  stared  away  at  the  neigh 
boring  roofs  and  pretended  I  had  not  heard. 

"Oh,  we'll  be  going  the  rounds,  all  right,  Allie." 

Man'el  had  spoken,  with  the  perfect  intonation 
to  suit  the  occasion.  I  observed  that  he  pulled 
his  sleeves  down  to  hide  the  gurry  sores  on  his 
wrists.  I  wondered  bitterly  why  I  could  not  do 
it.  For  the  moment  I  hated  his  ease  and  smooth 
speech  and  blustered  away  to  the  house  without  an 
other  word  to  any  of  them.  But  that  night  before 
I  slept  I  thought  of  Mene  Jesus  and  Allie  Snow. 
Yes,  I  would  be  there. 

164 


STORM 

I  was  not  to  sleep  long  that  night.  There  came 
a  thundering  at  the  door  before  midnight,  and  when 
I  had  tumbled  out  and  opened  it,  rather  dazed  by 
the  violent  awakening,  I  found  Man'el,  breathing 
hard. 

"They  gone,"  he  panted.  It  was  the  first  and 
last  time  I  ever  saw  him  excited. 

"Who?"  I  demanded,  still  dazed. 

"Mary  Sedgwick.    Cleared  about  two  hours  ago." 

"Well?" 

"Going  t'  let  'em  beat  you  out,  eh?" 

Here  was  the  reasoning  of  Youth: 

"Get  the  men."  I  felt  behind  me  in  the  dark 
for  my  clothes. 

"They're  here.    See 'em?" 

I  looked  beyond  him  and  saw  a  knot  of  shadows 
in  Shank  Painter. 

"Bait?"  I  speculated,  with  one  boot  stuck  over 
my  heel. 

"Listen." 

I  heard  a  whistle  blaring  down-street. 

"Cold  Storage  callin'  their  crew — I  tumbled  'em 
out  on  my  way  up." 

Dedos  was  grumbling  at  my  back,  having  come 
from  his  bedroom  prepared  for  conflict  with  ma 
rauders. 

"All  aboard,  Spare  Hand,"  I  called  to  him. 
"Tumble  up.  The  Mary's  put  out  to  beat  us." 

"Never  go."  It  was  the  croaking  of  age.  "Beeg 
gale  comeen.  Beeg  damn  gale — one  day — two 
day." 

We  would  hear  no  more  of  it;  we  hustled  him  out 
to  the  beach,  rolled  the  dories  over  with  a  splashing 

165 


STORM 

and  clattering,  pulled  away  over  the  dark  water 
to  the  cluster  of  lights  where  the  crew  from  Cold 
Storage  were  already  heaving  in  our  bait.  This 
was  the  night  of  Youth,  and  Dedos's  evil  day 
was  far  down  behind  the  placid  horizon. 

No  one  turned  in.  We  were  abreast  of  High 
Land  when  the  sun  came  up  into  a  blue  dome  of 
sky.  We  flashed  across  a  glittering  sea,  the  ther 
mometer  climbed  from  thirty-nine  to  forty-seven, 
the  glass  continued  high. 

"Fine  fair  weather,  Spare  Hand."  I  bawled  it 
the  length  of  the  vessel,  and  Man'el  jeered  the 
dismal  oracle  in  a  maddening  monotone.  Dedos 
scowled  and  shook  his  head,  popping  his  fingers 
at  the  north. 

"Beeg  breeze — debbil-damn  beeg  one — he  come." 

We  made  a  "set"  that  noon.  It  was  as  fair  a 
day  as  I  have  ever  seen.  A  steady  breeze  from  the 
southwest  sang  in  the  rigging;  the  floor  of  the 
ocean  chattered  and  ran  its  flickering  jewels  into 
the  north.  Dedos  steered  while  I  lounged  on  the 
taffrail,  and  so  we  waddled  on  our  course,  back 
and  forth  along  the  four-mile  crescent  of  our  dories, 
and  every  boat  we  shouldered  past  was  taking 
fish.  I  bawled  at  them,  waved  my  arms,  cheered. 
Dedos  slouched  on  the  wheel-box  and  continued 
to  shake  his  head. 

We  took  over  thirty  thousand  pounds  that  "set," 
mostly  steak  cod.  A  sense  of  vibration  and  rest 
lessness  pervaded  the  vessel  after  the  catch  was 
cleaned.  It  seemed  as  though  the  tide  would  never 
come  to  the  "slack"  again.  That  day  I  was  young. 

The  next  day  I  was  old.    It  came  in  the  night— 

166 


STORM 

from  whence,  how,  why,  I  cannot  say.  I  imagine 
that  had  I  been  a  monk  in  a  cell  it  would  have  been 
"given  me  in  a  dream."  But  I  was  not  asleep. 
On  the  contrary,  I  was  staring  awake.  I  have  had 
the  same  thing  happen  to  me  twice  since  then, 
once  in  the  Caribbean  and  once  before  the  Sep 
tember  gale  off  Block  Island.  Perhaps  the  ghosts 
of  my  seafaring  fathers  walked.  That  seems  to  me 
as  plausible  a  reason  as  any  for  my  suddenly  jump 
ing  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  scratching  a 
match,  and  peering  fearfully  at  the  barometer. 

"I'm  crazy,"  I  muttered  to  myself.  "That  old 
fool's  croaking  has  got  my  nerves."  The  glass  con 
tinued  high. 

I  crawled  back  under  my  blankets,  determined 
to  sleep,  but  sleep  was  gone  for  that  night.  My 
state-room  seemed  stuffy.  I  dressed  and  went  on 
deck,  wandered  about  restlessly,  peered  at  the  star 
lit  sky,  sniffed  suspiciously  at  the  easy  breeze, 
turned  an  ear  to  the  silence  hanging  under  the 
horizon.  My  nerves  had  come  to  a  bad  state.  I 
lit  a  pipe,  then  dropped  it  on  the  deck  in  my  start 
at  a  silent  figure  leaning  on  the  bow-rail.  I  rushed 
up  to  Maya  Viera,  whose  watch  it  was. 

"Who's  that?"  I  demanded.  Maya  must  have 
thought  his  commander  had  become  unbalanced, 
from  the  look  he  gave  me. 

"Dedos,"  he  said.  "He's  been  up  t'ree  time 
a'ready." 

Feeling  more  of  an  idiot  than  ever,  I  sneaked 
below  to  my  blankets  once  more.  It  was  of  no  use. 
Dread  stalked  the  narrow  room  and  panic  plucked 
at  me  with  weightless  fingers.  There  was  a  vast 

167 


STORM 

and  soundless  booming  away  over  the  horizons. 
I  heard  a  rattling  and  thudding  above  me,  sprang 
out  of  my  bunk,  rushed  on  deck,  and  found  the 
crew  tumbling  out  for  the  baiting.  There  was  not  a 
shred  of  mist  in  the  sky,  the  breeze  had  dropped  to 
a  wandering  breath,  it  was  growing  warmer. 
Man'el  was  baiting  near  me. 

"We're  goin'  to  get  fish  this  day,  Joe.  You 
watch."  Then  he  squinted  at  me.  "What's  the 
matter — sick,  Joe?" 

I  found  that  I  had  no  hat  or  coat  on,  and  decided 
I  must  look  rather  wild  and  haggard.  Dedos  stood 
with  his  back  to  me,  glooming  at  the  northern  sky. 
I  went  below  and  remained  there  till  it  was  time 
to  put  the  dories  over. 

After  that  I  was  more  tormented  than  ever.  I 
had  a  wild  impulse  to  rush  below,  drag  out  the  fog 
horn,  and  call  back  the  boats  that  had  faded  out 
into  the  night. 

"Dedos,"  I  called.  And  then  when  he  answered 
my  hail  I  gave  him  a  weak  "Nothing — never  mind." 
I  had  almost  spoken  of  the  fog-horn.  I  put  myself 
as  far  from  him  as  I  could.  I  wanted  to  talk  with 
him,  and  yet  I  could  not  face  him.  Above  all  things, 
I  wished  that  the  dories  were  back. 

At  five  o'clock  I  went  down  and  examined  the 
barometer.  It  seemed  to  call  me,  no  matter  how 
far  away  I  went.  It  stood  where  it  had  stood  for 
thirty  hours. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  I  demanded  of 
myself.  I  had  no  answer  and  clattered  on  deck 
again. 

A  little  before  six  I  sneaked  down  another  time. 

168 


STORM 

I  lit  a  match  and  peered  at  the  glass.  The  flame 
crept  down  and  scorched  my  fingers.  I  fumbled  for 
another,  scratched  it,  squinted  down  at  the  frail 
cylinder. 

"My  God  in  heaven,"  I  wondered.  It  had 
dropped  ten  points  in  fifty  minutes. 

I  believe  I  never  before  or  since  got  my  hulk  up 
a  ladder  so  fast  as  I  managed  then. 

"Dedos,"  I  bawled.  "We  got  to  get  those  dories 
aboard.  Lend  a  hand  here—  I  was  fumbling  at 
the  catch  of  the  fog-signal  when  he  came  run 
ning. 

"Dorees?"  he  wheezed.  "Dey  comeen'  now. 
Viera's  on  port  side  now.  Wat's  matter  weeth  you, 
Zhoe — you  seek?" 

It  was  the  identical  phrase  of  Man'el's.  I  paid 
it  no  attention,  but  ran  forward  and  stood  in  the 
waist,  waiting  for  the  boats  to  come  in.  It  seemed 
to  me  they  would  never  grow  out  of  the  gloom.  I 
counted  them  as  they  edged  in,  crept  in,  loitered 
agonizingly  over  the  water  which  grayed  with 
appalling  speed  before  the  coming  day.  I  heard 
the  rain  of  their  fish  coming  into  the  pens;  mechan 
ically  I  dodged  the  dories  as  they  swung  inboard 
and  settled  in  the  nests,  and  still  I  waited  for  the 
last  to  come.  It  was  Man'el's  dory.  I  was  watching 
from  the  port  side  when  they  came  up  on  the  star 
board,  and  they  were  close  to  the  vessel  before  I 
marked  them.  I  leaned  over  the  rail  and  bawled 
through  cupped  hands:  "Man'el — hey — hook  onto 
the  falls — right  away — never  mind  your  fish." 

I  can  remember  the  whites  of  his  eyes  as  he  stood 
in  the  swaying  boat  staring  up  at  me. 

169 


STORM 

"What  the  hell—"  He  spit  over  the  side  and 
stared  at  his  mate. 

"You  heard  what  I  said,"  I  bellowed.  "Hook 
up — hook  up — "  I  reached  over  with  a  gaff, 
hooked  under  his  gunwale,  and  brought  the  boat 
crashing  against  the  side  so  violently  that  both 
of  the  mates  sprawled  among  their  catch. 

"Hook  'em  up,"  I  yelled  to  the  dazed  crew; 
"then  stand  by  the  fore-halliards."  Grabbing  up 
the  cook's  hatchet  from  a  bucket  I  ran  into  the 
bow.  We  were  riding  on  a  hemp  cable.  I  parted 
it  with  a  dozen  strokes,  letting  three  hundred  dollars 
in  line  and  anchor  go  to  the  bottom. 

I  never  wish  to  pass  another  morning  like  that. 
We  drifted  to  the  northwest;  it  was  really  no  more 
than  drifting,  with  the  wind  so  light  that  it  hardly 
filled  the  sails.  We  crawled  across  a  glassy  sea 
beneath  a  glassy  sky.  The  thermometer  rose 
steadily,  the  barometer  continued  to  fall.  I  was 
now  thoroughly  ashamed  of  my  exhibition  at  dawn. 
I  could  not  face  the  men.  I  could  not  stay  below. 
The  crew  whispered  that  morning,  and  grumbled 
and  speculated.  Man'el  approached  me  several 
times,  but  I  waved  him  off  with  a  scowl,  and  he 
retired  to  a  knot  of  his  whispering  mates.  Dedos 
appeared  to  study  me,  shaking  his  head  now  at 
me.  I  was  ashamed,  and  yet,  all  the  time  that 
inexplicable  craving  for  hurry  gnawed  at  me. 

A  little  after  twelve,  noon,  the  vessel  gave  over 
its  whispering  and  shouted  aloud,  cheered,  shifted 
in  an  instant  from  glum  suspicion  to  vociferous 
confidence.  Off  on  the  horizon,  on  our  port  beam, 
a  fleck  of  white  broke  the  blue.  It  was  the  Mary 

170 


STORM 

Sedgmck  with  all  her  canvas  set,  crawling  to  the 
north.  It  is  an  actual  fact  that  those  men  cheering 
about  me  believed  I  had  had  some  occult  warning 
of  the  movements  of  another  vessel,  twenty  miles 
or  more  away;  that  I  had  seen  her  anchor  coming 
up,  her  sails  set,  her  bowsprit  wheeling  toward 
the  market — all  this  in  the  dark  hours  of  the 
morning. 

"You  can't  git  ahead  of  him,"  I  heard  from  one 
of  the  morning's  grumblers. 

It  was  a  race — a  race  which  meant  the  cream  of 
the  market — a  race  of  snails.  Through  the  after 
noon  we  closed  up  upon  them  by  imperceptible 
degrees  of  faster  drifting.  We  spread  more  canvas 
than  they,  that  was  all.  The  air  was  almost  sultry. 
At  three  o'clock  we  had  come  astern  of  them. 
Through  the  glasses  I  could  make  out  their  men 
massed  in  the  stern  watching  us.  Our  own  packed 
so  tightly  into  the  bows  that  Dedos  had  to  order 
a  part  of  them  aft. 

I  alone  in  all  the  vessel  had  no  interest  in  the 
race.  My  brain  was  sick  with  a  strange  disorder. 
I  was  terrified  by  shadows  in  the  midst  of  warm 
and  brilliant  light.  I  felt  the  horizon  creeping  in; 
the  hours  dragged;  the  glass  went  down.  That 
slender  clouded  cylinder  fascinated  me,  held  me 
with  a  horrible  mesmerism.  My  journeys  to  my 
state-room  became  more  and  more  frequent  as  the 
afternoon  wore  away.  I  felt  as  I  imagine  one  on 
a  pleasure  party  might  feel  possessed  of  a  secret 
knowledge  of  an  infernal  machine  ticking  off  the 
seconds  in  the  ship's  internals.  We  lifted  High 

Land  at  four-twenty.    The  Mary  led  us  by  only  a 
12  171 


STORM 

dozen  lengths.  The  crew  swung  their  caps  and 
cheered.  I  sneaked  below  like  a  tippler  to  his 
secret  bottle.  The  glass  stood  at  twenty-eight-two. 
I  remembered  old  men's  tales  of  the  Africa  gale — 
how  the  glass  stood  at  twenty-eight-two.  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer. 

"Dedos,"  I  called  from  the  companion,  "below 
here." 

"Wat  I  tell  you?"  he  grunted,  when  he  had 
examined  the  glass.  "But  any  wee,  we  beat  dat 
Maree — eh,  Zhoe?"  There  was  a  light  in  his  eyes 
that  I  did  not  like.  It  had  not  been  there  [yes 
terday. 

"But  look  here,  Dedos—" 

"We  beat  heem — you  bet." 

It  had  gotten  into  his  blood  then.  It  was  curious 
how  completely  we  had  traded  positions. 

It  was  as  warm  as  a  day  in  May  when  I  came 
on  deck  again.  We  were  abreast  of  High  Land  and 
no  longer  moving.  The  wind  had  fallen  dead.  We 
lay  there  an  hour,  bobbing  in  company  with  the 
Mary,  so  near  now  that  taunts  and  counter-taunts 
would  carry  across  the  water.  I  wras  afraid  of  this 
breathless  hour.  The  barometer  sank  to  twenty- 
eight-two.  No  man  in  the  Cape  had  ever  seen  it 
there  before.  I  whispered  it  to  Dedos.  He  popped 
his  fingers  in  the  air  and  cursed  the  calm  that  held 
us  from  the  game.  I  gave  him  over  in  disgust 
for  a  light-headed  fellow. 

At  six  there  came  a  sudden  ruffling  over  the 
water,  and  an  air  from  the  southeast  drove  us 
beyond  Peaked  Hill.  The  men  were  in  hilarious 
spirits.  The  air  subsided,  came  abruptly  from 

172 


STORM 

another  quarter,  jibed  our  sails  and  drove  us  on. 
The  City  was  forty  miles  ahead.  It  looked  as 
though  we  should  beat  the  Mary  easily. 

But  the  sickness  of  my  brain  had  done  its  work. 
I  found  myself  muttering  against  the  festival  spirit. 
I  growled  oaths  under  my  breath  at  the  fools  who 
slapped  shoulders.  I  felt  the  world  turning  over 
in  agony  beneath  me;  muttering  came  over  its  sides 
and  filled  my  ears;  I  had  an  intolerable  sense  of 
things  hanging.  Dusk  came  on;  the  shore  lights 
pricked  out;  the  air  continued  unnaturally  warm. 
The  stars  appeared,  and  those  low  down  on  the 
sky-line  were  red. 

I  yelled:    "Stand  by  that  main-sheet!" 

I  rushed  the  nearer  men  along  on  my  shoulders, 
took  the  wheel  from  the  helmsman,  whirled  it  a-port. 
The  main  boom  swung  with  gathering  speed  over 
my  head  and  fetched  up  with  the  crash  of  a  broken 
throat  and  a  rain  of  splinters,  and  the  Arbitrator 
stood  back  for  the  twinkling  of  Race  Point. 

And  now  I  had  to  deal  with  twenty-six  men — 
twenty-six  men  who  were  certain  their  captain  had 
gone  out  of  his  head  with  the  stroke  of  some  obscure 
malady.  They  were  so  dazed  at  first  that  they 
could  only  stand  and  stare  at  the  vanishing  Mary 
Sedgwick.  Then  Dedos  came  waddling  to  the  wheel 
and  peered  into  my  face  with  a  troubled  look  in  his 
own. 

"You  don'  look  good,  Zhoe — "  The  craft  in  his 
voice  would  have  been  ludicrous  at  any  other  time. 
"W'y  don'  you  go  beelow  an*  turn  een — eh,  Zhoe? 
I  tek  w'eel  for  you."  He  tried  to  loosen  my  hands 
with  a  gentle  insistence. 

173 


STORM 

"Get  out  of  here,"  I  growled  at  him.  "I  know 
what  I'm  doing." 

They  came  at  me  from  behind  his  back,  so  that 
I  had  no  warning  of  the  assault  before  it  was  fairly 
upon  me — ten  or  fifteen  of  the  men  rushing  in  a 
compact  knot,  tumbling  Dedos  end  over  end  to 
squeal  in  the  scuppers,  and  falling  upon  me  with  a 
smothering,  battering,  yelling  weight. 

It  was  all  over  in  the  drawing  of  a  breath.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand  exactly  what  hap 
pened.  I  have  no  recollection  of  taking  my  hands 
from  the  wheel,  but  there  was  Denny  White  lying 
across  the  after  companion,  groaning  and  bleeding 
from  the  mouth.  On  either  side  of  the  deck-house 
my  late  assailants  crouched  and  glowered  at  me. 
I  do  not  believe  that  they  knew  what  had  happened 
any  more  clearly  than  I.  Had  one  of  them  started 
I  think  the  whole  pack  would  have  been  down  upon 
me  again,  but  none  would  take  the  lead.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  I  had  stood  on  the  deck  of 
the  Fortune  and  pitched  a  whole  crew  over  the 
sides  with  my  two  hands — that  tradition  stood  be 
hind  me. 

The  man  to  lead  them  was  not  there.  He  had 
stayed  out  of  it,  forward  in  the  bow.  They  needed 
my  brother.  I  saw  him  coming  now,  threading 
his  way  nicely  among  the  tubs.  He  jumped  up  on 
the  deck-house  and  approached  between  the  two 
parties,  sat  down  on  the  edge  before  me,  and  spoke 
in  his  easy  way. 

"No  use  talkin',  Joe;  we  got  to  get  back,  eh?" 
«  I  could  not  think  what  he  was  driving  at. 

"Don't  matter  about  fish,  'r  the  Mary,  'r  nothin* 

174 


STORM 

— eh,  Joe?  Ta-ta-tara-lara — to-night's  Mene  Jesus 
— gotta  get  back.  What  you  jumpin'  for,  Joe?" 

It  is  true  I  had  started.  Mene  Jesus!  I  had  for 
gotten.  This  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  altars 
would  be  lighted  up  and  down  the  hill  streets. 

"Get  forward,  Man'el,"  I  managed  to  say.  He 
smoothed  his  face  with  his  hands  and  mused,  look 
ing  shoreward. 

"Oh  yes,  we'll  be  there,  all  right,  with  silk  hats 
on.  Boys  will  be  boys;  eh,  brother?" 

It  had  grown  so  dark  that  I  could  make  out  only 
the  gray  oval  of  his  face.  That  gray  oval  leered  at 
me.  It  was  devilish.  Man'el  was  amused.  Here 
was  a  stroke  of  fortune  fallen  for  Man'el.  He  would 
not  have  had  me  turn  again  and  follow  theMar^ 
for  worlds. 

We  came  about  the  Point  and  let  our  anchor  go 
in  the  hushed  and  oppressive  night.  Even  then 
Man'el  clung  to  me.  In  the  dory  he  crowded  a 
place  for  himself  on  the  thwart  facing  me,  with  his 
face  no  more  than  a  foot  from  mine,  a  livid  oval 
on  the  blackness  of  the  night. 

"Damn  fool — poor  damn  fool!"  he  murmured. 
"Fish  can  go  to  the  devil — must  see  woman.  Poor 
damn  fool;  don't  know  what  he's  up  against,  an' 
so  she'll  have  to  tell  him.  Ah — ah —  my  poor 
broken  heart.  We'll  go  an'  see  her — me  an'  you. 
An'  such  a  fine  night;  it's  hell  they  ain't  any  moon, 
ain't  it?" 

He  would  have  made  a  superb  gambler,  Man'el. 
He  was  keen  enough  to  know  that  I  would  never 
touch  him;  he  had  a  devilish  instinct  for  playing 
his  cards.  I  cringed  and  quivered  under  his  moving 

175 


STORM 

knife.  I  tried  not  to  look  at  him,  staring  over  his 
head  at  the  shore  lights.  I  was  oppressed  by  the 
hopeless  reflection  that  he  was  but  beginning  the 
torture.  He  had  a  weapon  now  to  last  him  months 
and  years — a  balm  to  sooth  the  hurt  I  had  done 
him  by  coming  back  a  hero.  I  passed  a  wrist  over 
my  face  and  found  it  running  with  sweat.  The 
night  was  hot — an  August  night  for  a  Christmas 
Eve. 


XIV 

THE   FESTIVAL  OF  MENE  JESUS 

WHEN  we  came  to  the  beach  I  tramped  off 
up-shore  alone,  for  the  reason  that  no  one 
moved  to  go  with  me.  Dedos,  bewildered  and  dis 
gruntled,  crunched  off  heavily  in  another  direction. 
Man'el  went  with  him,  but  halted  at  the  street  and 
waited  for  me.  I  wheeled  at  sight  of  his  silhouette 
and  made  to  the  westward.  It  was  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  I  came  into  Shank  Painter  by  a  detour 
and  found  the  house  black  and  bolted.  A  fearful 
hush  lay  over  the  street,  and  above  the  hush  the 
stars  burned  smokily.  There  was  a  rumor  of  music 
in  the  heavy  air,  creeping  from  the  eastward.  I 
tried  my  own  door  once  more.  I  battered  at  it.  I 
had  an  impulse  to  break  it  down. 

"Something  is  going  to  happen,"  I  heard  myself 
muttering.  "I've  got  to  find  Agnes.  She  might 
have  left  the  key  here — "  A  wave  of  bitterness  at 
Agnes 's  carelessness  came  over  me,  still  more  bitter 
when  I  reflected  that  she  would  hardly  expect  us 
at  this  time. 

"I've  got  to  find  her,"  I  grumbled  again,  then 
turned  into  the  lane  and  walked  rapidly  toward 
the  front  street. 

"How  could  you  be  so  long?" 

177 


STORM 

It  was  Man'el  who  started  out  of  the  shadow  at 
the  corner,  where  he  had  been  waiting  for  me.  He 
grasped  my  elbow.  I  shook  him  off  and  started  to 
the  eastward  with  the  board  walk  thundering 
under  me. 

We  came  out  of  the  dark  into  the  light.  There 
was  a  house  with  all  its  windows  glowing.  Mene 
Jesus  was  there.  The  front  room  was  packed;  we 
could  see  the  figures  of  men  and  women  moving 
across  the  light  from  a  score  of  candles  burning 
over  the  altar.  Diagonally  across  the  street  another 
house  was  celebrating  the  festival.  Four  men  with 
violaos  played  in  the  open  doorway  and  chanted 
the  monotonous  drone  of  the  sepulchoro.  I  saw  the 
altar  through  the  square  panes,  a  pyramid  of  little 
steps  covered  with  white  cloth,  adorned  with  sprout 
ing  wheat  in  saucers,  figures  of  the  Infant,  of  the 
Virgin,  bizarre  dolls,  grotesque  trinkets,  generations 
old,  brought  over  from  the  Islands,  where  they  had 
figured  at  Mene  Jesus  time  out  of  mind.  Men  drank 
wine,  wiped  their  mouths  with  their  sleeves,  and 
came  away,  giving  place  to  others. 

Agnes  was  not  there.  I  peered  about  the  corners 
like  a  culprit  escaped  from  prison.  Man'el,  always 
close  at  my  side,  had  none  of  my  furtiveness. 

"Seen  Dedos's  woman?"  he  asked  of  a  bystander. 
The  man  shook  a  thumb  down-street. 

We  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Glen  and  saw  three 
houses  blazing  with  the  festival,  all  near  together 
toward  the  back  street.  I  hesitated  here,  but 
Man'el  was  asking  his  way  of  another  loiterer. 

"See  'em  down  to  th'  Dago's  ten  minutes  back," 
the  man  offered.  "Ain't  it  hot,  though?" 

178 


STORM 

But  we  were  off  again  without  further  words, 
I  staring  ahead  and  swinging  my  arms  and  legs 
furiously,  Man'el  clinging  in  my  shadow — a  strange 
pair  of  brothers.  We  turned  suddenly  into  a  sort  of 
wharf-lane  between  two  houses  on  the  shore  side  of 
the  street.  If  you  go  there  now  you  will  find  this 
opening  closed  up  by  a  meat  market,  but  at  that 
time,  with  the  light  from  two  house-sides  pouring 
into  it,  the  hollow  gave  the  impression  of  a  small 
illuminated  vestibule  to  the  huge  black  chamber  of 
the  harbor,  whose  carpet  at  high  water  lapped  well 
up  into  the  light. 

Half  a  dozen  people  were  standing  in  the  runway 
now,  watching  through  the  windows  the  moving 
crowd  within  the  westward  house,  listening  to  the 
thrumming  music  of  strings,  and  admiring  the 
sumptuousness  of  the  altar,  for  Gabriel  Danzio  was 
showing  the  finest  Mene  Jesus  in  Old  Harbor  that 
year.  This  was  a  strange  thing  too,  for  Danzio  was 
no  Islander,  but  an  Italian  who  had  come  ashore 
on  the  Race  years  before  in  the  brig  of  which  he  was 
second  in  command.  He  had  taken  the  custom 
from  his  wife,  however,  a  Portuguese  girl,  now 
dead  ten  years.  He  stood  on  the  porch  as  I  turned 
into  the  lane  and  passed  the  time  of  evening  with 
me  in  an  unctuous  voice  which  tried  to  be  jocular. 
Danzio  had  grown  very  sleek  and  fat  and  soft- 
footed  of  late  years.  I  did  not  answer  his  hail;  I 
was  looking  at  Allie  Snow. 

She  was  dressed  in  summer  white,  with  the  gray 
cape  she  had  worn  the  night  her  father  was  taken 
thrown  over  her  shoulders.  The  hood  had  fallen 
down  her  back,  and  her  hair,  braided  round  and 

179 


STORM 

round  her  head,  was  like  a  mesh  of  golden  links 
in  the  light  from  the  window. 

I  had  come  upon  her  suddenly.  I  had  not  ex 
pected  to  see  her.  She  continued  to  look  through 
the  window,  so  that  I  saw  her,  for  the  first  time 
since  we  were  grown  up,  quite  easy  and  natural. 
There  she  stood,  Allison  Snow,  interested,  standing 
on  tiptoe,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  the  townspeople 
about  her.  One  inside  dropped  a  glass.  The  whole 
instant  of  loosing  hold,  clutching  wildly,  suspense, 
falling,  destruction,  was  echoed  in  her  lovely,  eager 
face,  full  in  the  window  light.  It  did  some  queer 
thing  inside  of  me.  I  was  taken  by  a  mad  desire 
to  rush  forward  and  take  her  shoulders  and  bring 
her  to  face  me  and  demand  that  she  think  of  me — 
of  me,  not  of  a  falling  glass.  I  had  a  sudden,  un 
reasoning,  ungovernable  sense  of  ownership.  All 
the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  lane  dropped  out  of 
sight,  and  the  girl  stood  there  alone,  mine.  I  sup 
pose  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  hallucination  brought 
on  by  a  night  and  day  of  mental  sickness.  There 
was  a  quality  of  culmination  about  it  that  solved 
at  a  stroke  my  inexplicable  sense  of  things  imminent. 

"Allie,"  I  called. 

And  now  I  saw  another  flash  of  drama  play  itself 
out  in  her  face,  with  its  separate  acts  of  bewilder 
ment,  realization,  happiness.  Yes,  be  as  constrained 
and  ill  at  ease  as  ever  she  might  be  again,  she  could 
never  make  me  forget  that  she  had  been  glad  to  hear 
my  voice.  She  was  looking  at  me  with  her  lips 
parted  and  her  cheeks  afire  and  a  light  in  her  eyes 
that  I  had  never  seen  in  the  world  before.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  queer  night,  the  shadow  of  a  shadow 

180 


STORM 

hanging  in  the  air,  the  foreboding  of  the  end  of  the 
world — who  may  know?  For  one  poignant  second 
we  two  stood  there  with  naked  spirits  and  greeted 
each  other  without  words.  It  seemed  to  me  an 
awful  thing  to  let  that  moment  go,  totter  like  the 
glass  the  man  had  broken,  fall  down  the  past,  and 
lie  unmarked  with  all  the  broken  seconds  of  eternity. 

But  it  had  to  fall.  I  moved  forward  among  the 
people.  Allie  said,  "I  didn't  know  you  were  back," 
and  pointed  for  me  to  look  in  at  the  window  where 
old  Gabe  Young  was  telling  a  story  to  a  ring  of 
listeners  with  grotesque  contortions  and  graphic 
gestures.  He  was  rather  far  gone  with  the  good 
cheer  of  Mene  Jesus.  How  was  this  night  different 
from  other  nights?  Folks  passed  back  and  forth 
in  the  street;  those  about  us  gossiped  and  hummed 
and  giggled.  There  was  no  reason  to  believe  that 
every  eye  within  range  was  fixed  on  me.  Neverthe 
less,  I  felt  awkward  and  red,  and  mumbled  nothing 
but  "yes"  and  "no"  to  the  happy  questionings  of 
the  girl  at  my  side. 

I  had  forgotten  Man 'el  altogether.  He  had  not 
forgotten  me.  I  became  aware  of  his  presence  on 
the  other  side  of  Allie.  He  was  looking  through 
the  window  with  us,  answering  Allie's  queries  with 
all  that  ready  grace  of  his. 

"You  did  get  back  very  soon,  didn't  you?" 

Man 'el  had  been  waiting  for  that  question.  He 
did  not  reply,  now  that  it  was  put,  but  grinned  at 
me  instead. 

"I  supposed  you'd  gone  for  a  week  at  least,"  she 
went  on,  not  fathoming  his  pantomime.  He  con 
tinued  to  grin  and  nod  his  head  at  me,  forcing  the 

181 


STORM 

answer  to  my  side.  A  little  pucker  of  wonder 
came  between  the  girl's  eyes,  and  she  turned  to 
stare  at  my  red  and  perspiring  face. 

"Why,  wha — what's  the  matter?  What's  wrong, 
Joe?" 

"This  is  Mene  Jesus"  I  said.  "Dedos  has  come 
back  to  celebrate  with  you  and  Agnes." 

Man'el  had  driven  me  to  it.  And  yet  he  did  not 
believe  I  would  do  it.  Discomfiture  showed  on  his 
face  as  I  blundered  on,  and  the  realization  that  I  had 
flanked  him  went  to  my  head  like  a  dram  of  whisky. 

"  Mene  Jesus."  I  spoke  low  but  full  at  her. 
"And  I  came  back  to  be  with  you,  Allie  Snow. 
What  other  reason  in  the  world  would  bring  me? 
I  wanted  to  see  you;  I  had  to  see  your  face — you 
said  you  would  be  at  Mene  Jesus.  There." 

I  broke  off,  appalled  by  the  lengths  to  which  my 
rush  had  carried  me.  I  seemed  physically  ex 
hausted,  as  might  a  man  who  had  lived  half  a 
year  in  ten  seconds.  I  had  a  vision  of  Man'el 
watching  the  girl's  face  expectantly.  I  turned  my 
head  away.  I  could  not  face  her.  Men  and  women 
stared  at  us,  children  pointed,  girls  giggled;  a 
dozen  festival-goers  had  packed  into  the  mouth  of 
the  runway.  My  eyes  sought  desperately  for  a  rag 
of  shadow  to  cover  me.  It  seemed  that  I  must 
forever  parade  my  emotions  before  the  populace. 
But  there  was  no  shadow  in  the  passage  except  the 
shadow  of  the  watery  carpet — perfectly  quiet  water 
that  scarcely  trembled  on  the  sand  of  the  beach. 
I  wiped  my  brow  with  my  wrist;  the  sweat  upon 
it  crackled,  it  was  frozen.  The  air  had  chilled 
without  a  movement,  frost-struck  where  it  lay. 

182 


STORM 

I  looked  back  at  Allie  and  found  her  face  near 
me,  her  eyes  looking  straight  up  into  mine.  What 
was  she  thinking?  Why  was  she  waiting?  What 
was  this — her  hands  on  my  shoulders?  We  were 
alone  again,  on  the  top  of  the  world.  I  reached  up 
and  covered  her  hands  with  my  own.  They  did 
not  draw  away,  but  turned  over  and  pressed  palm 
against  palm. 

"Why,  Allie,"  I  wondered,  seeing  the  miracle — 
"why,  Allie — you  do  love  me — Allie — Allie — 

"Now — "  Man'el's  face  appeared  from  behind 
her  shoulder — "now,  Allie,  tell  him  about  —  oh, 
you  know — " 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  but  looked  steadily 
at  me,  her  face  shining  with  a  gladness  for  which 
there  is  no  word,  her  lips  parted,  her  warm  breath 
coming  to  me — the  woman  giving.  I  struck  at  my 
brother's  face  with  the  flat  of  my  hand,  but  he  was 
too  quick,  dodged  back,  protruded  it  from  the 
other  side  and  sneered: 

"Poor  fool;  poor  damn  fool.  Tell  him,  Allie — 
tell  him  what  he's  up  against." 

He  stepped  back  and  laughed,  raising  his  face 
to  the  sky,  holding  out  his  hands,  laughed  and 
laughed.  Children,  without  knowing  why  they  did 
it,  giggled  and  shouted  in  chorus.  I  put  Allie  aside 
and  went  at  him,  blinded  with  his  stinging,  reaching 
to  grasp  him  with  spread  hands.  And  while  I  was 
covering  a  dozen  feet  in  my  rush  the  world  groaned 
and  went  to  pieces.  The  passage,  shrieked  with  a 
breath  of  ice,  waste-paper  and  dust  mingled  in  a 
reeling  dance  across  the  barred  light.  Man'el  had 
vanished.  I  found  my  feet  sopping  in  wet  sand 

183 


STORM 

where  the  water  should  have  been.  The  tide  had 
vanished,  too.  I  brought  up  and  stared  at  the 
blank  of  the  harbor. 

"Where  has  the  water  gone?"  I  mumbled,  fool 
ishly. 

The  bottom  had  fallen  out  of  the  sea  and  all  the 
fluid  run  away.  And  now  it  returned  from  the 
sky  in  a  sheet  of  screaming  rain  that  froze  as  it  fell. 
I  whirled  and  blundered  back  toward  the  street, 
shouting  as  I  ran.  The  walls  appeared  to  rock  on 
either  side  of  me?  and  the  place  weltered  under  the 
crystal  volleys  of  the  rain.  I  was  blind  in  the 
midst  of  light.  My  foot  struck  a  whimpering 
bundle.  It  was  a  child.  I  picked  her  up  and  stum 
bled  on,  carrying  a  dozen  other  whimperers  forward 
with  my  shoulders.  I  could  hear  something  boom 
ing  behind  me  now. 

"Water's  coming  back,"  I  bellowed  at  the  human 
tangle  in  front  of  me.  The  sound  of  its  advance 
rumbled  across  the  ridge  of  Old  Harbor  like  the 
crash  of  planets.  I  beat  them  into  the  open  street, 
under  the  flare  of  a  corner  lamp.  I  pawed  them 
over  indiscriminately,  furiously,  tumbling  children 
and  men  and  women  about  like  dolls.  Allie  was  not 
there. 

"Get  up  the  hill,"  I  shouted  in  a  man's  ear, 
threw  him  back  among  the  rest,  and  bolted  into  the 
howling  passage  of  crystals  once  more. 

Tumult  crushed  the  world.  The  ocean  spoke 
aloud,  as  it  speaks  once  in  a  man's  lifetime.  I 
could  see  it  coming  now,  a  blacker  wall  advancing 
to  devour  the  wharves.  I  groped  my  way;  boards 
came  from  the  walls  under  my  hands. 

184 


STORM 

I  found  her  flattened  against  a  sunken  door,  crying 
my  name  soundlessly  against  the  solid  clamor  of 
the  gale.  Her  arms  were  about  my  shoulders.  I 
tore  them  loose  and  put  them  back  about  my  chest, 
under  my  armpits,  and  spread  out  my  hands  against 
the  evil  tongue  that  shot  at  us  out  of  the  harbor. 

It  seemed  to  me  an  hour  that  I  fought  in  that 
passage.  It  was  dark;  the  lighted  houses  had  gone 
black.  Water,  water,  water  was  all  I  knew — water 
and  wreckage  that  battered  against  my  back. 
Above  the  voice  of  the  gale  other  voices  obtruded 
their  staccato  cries:  the  crash  of  rotten  wharves, 
the  screaming  of  vessels  in  agony  on  the  beach — 
wails  that  meant  nothing  unless  they  might  be  the 
echoes  of  men  perishing  at  sea. 

...  I  was  on  the  porch  of  Andy  Lewis's  house, 
diagonally  across  from  Danzio's,  clinging  to  a  pil 
lar.  One  moment  the  front  street  was  a  foaming 
river  tormented  by  wreckage;  the  next  it  was 
muddy  ground,  with  flotsam  stranded  among  tiny 
glistening  pools.  The  wave  had  gone  back.  The 
world  still  rumbled  with  the  gale,  as  it  was  to  rumble 
all  the  length  of  that  night.  For  this  was  one  of 
those  gales  which  come  to  the  dignity  of  a  name. 
A  steamer  filled  with  people  foundered  in  the  bay 
at  midnight.  The  storm  was  called  after  that 
steamer — the  Carolina  gale.  But  the  toll  of  its 
anger  was  heavier  among  the  humbler  people  of 
the  sea,  and  fifty-seven  sailing-craft  broke  off  the 
shores  that  night.  Five  men  never  came  back  to 
Old  Harbor  from  the  Plymouth  beach  where  the 
Mary  Sedgwick  split  on  a  rock  fifty  yards  inshore. 

From  the  porch  I  could  see  a  strange  thing. 

185 


STORM 

"Look,  Allie,  dearest  —  look."  I  pointed  across 
the  street  to  where  a  gaunt  spar  protruded  from 
between  the  dwellings  on  the  shore  side.  It  was  a 
bizarre  thing  to  be  there,  illuminated  by  the  one 
street-light  that  had  lived  through. 

"Look,  Allie— a  schooner  come  ashore,  clear  up 
between  the  houses.  Look  at  the  bowsprit." 

"I  don't  want  to  look,"  she  said.  Her  head  was 
down,  her  voice  muffled;  I  could  feel  her  lips  on 
my  neck.  "To-night,"  she  said — "to-night — I 
don't  want  to  look  at  anything  or  any  one  but 
you." 

A  dripping,  torn  figure  splashed  along  the  barren 
street,  laughing.  It  was  Man'el.  I  did  not  hear 
him. 


XV 

A  WARM  DAY  AND  A   COLD   NIGHT 

SPRING  was  blowing  high  in  the  back  country; 
a  gale  of  life  swept  through  the  fibers  of  the 
land;  the  woods  rocked  with  the  birth  of  flowers. 
Even  my  sluggish  spirit  bubbled  and  worked  with 
the  wine  of  the  air;  and  Allie,  forever  a  taut  chord 
to  be  twanged  by  the  lightest  finger,  was  taken 
with  a  sort  of  spring  madness  that  made  her  run 
and  tinkle  her  fingers  along  the  hanging  feathers  of 
the  leaves  and  fall  on  her  knees  to  press  her  face 
against  the  springing  carpet. 

"Joe — I  love  you  so  very  much." 

What  could  I  say?  What  answer  was  there  in 
the  world  to  give  to  Allie  Snow,  looking  up  at  me 
with  her  face  covered  with  jewels  it  had  robbed 
from  the  damp  greenery?  All  I  could  do  was  to 
bend  over,  put  my  arms  about  her  slim,  strong 
waist,  swing  her  high,  and  then  kiss  her  wet  lips. 
Such  is  the  questionable  penalty  of  being  dumb. 

We  came  to  the  point  where  Aunt  Sukie's  Road 
goes  to  the  westward  and  branches  off  toward 
Atkins-Mayo.  Allie  danced  along  furiously,  drag 
ging  at  my  thumb.  It  came  to  my  mind  that  she 
had  propelled  me  thus  when  we  ran  down  Pink 
Hill  together,  after  the  spectacle  of  the  chickens' 

13  187 


STORM 

heads.  Tim  scurried  ahead,  clearing  monsters  from 
the  thickets.  I  brought  up  the  rear  as  the  heavy 
infantry;  Hessian,  I  should  say  (the  name  is  heavy, 
somehow),  but  more  intensely  happy  than  ever  a 
Hessian  has  been. 

The  world  was  a  principality  of  singing  things 
that  day,  and  I  was  the  prince,  the  ineffably  fortu 
nate,  the  heir  apparent  of  the  sumptuous  chambers 
of  the  sky.  Allie  Snow  was  so  lovely,  so  straight 
and  slender  and  strong,  so  radiant  with  the  gale 
of  living,  possessed  of  a  boisterous  tenderness, 
preposterously  careful  not  to  crush  a  live  thing  with 
her  dancing  soles,  and  when  she  did,  mourning  so 
cataclysmically  over  its  death.  She  was  mine — the 
woman  brought  up  to  me  by  the  heaving  wreck  of 
the  centuries.  At  any  moment  I  chose  I  might 
withdraw  my  outstretched  hand,  bringing  her  to 
me;  might  lay  her  head  in  the  hollow  of  my  arm, 
smother  my  face  in  her  sweet  hair,  kiss  her  eyes, 
her  cheeks,  her  lips.  I,  Joseph  Manta,  might  do  all 
this.  I  put  it  off  from  moment  to  moment,  hoarding 
up  my  gold,  till  the  treasure-chests  burst  and  I 
must  kiss  my  love. 

And  after  that  we  climbed  a  thick-set  path — the 
disembodied  clamor  of  a  dog,  the  head  of  a  girl,  the 
head  and  shoulders  and  chest  of  a  man — till  the 
cover  opened  out  and  we  stood  near  the  Province 
Land  boundary-stone,  looking  down  into  the  hollow 
— that  hollow  so  memorable  to  me. 

"Do  you  remember  that  day,  Joe?" 

"Yes — I  remember." 

"I  was  afraid  of  you  that  day,  Joe.  Oh,  I  was 
afraid.  I  meant  to  come  to  you  all  the  time,  but 

188 


STORM 

I  was  so  frightened  when  I  got  here.  You'll  never 
make  me  afraid  of  you  again,  will  you,  Joe?" 

"No — no,  Allie,"  I  cried.  I  am  afraid  I  was 
rather  a  baby  over  her  then.  I  assured  myself 
fiercely  that  I  would  cut  off  my  right  hand  before 
I  would  make  her  afraid  of  me  again.  I  wonder 
what  our  emotions  would  have  been  had  we  known 
what  that  protestation  of  mine  would  come  to 
mean. 

We  went  down  and  stood  in  the  hollow.  Once 
it  had  been  the  temple  of  the  fire-god,  once  the 
sanctuary  of  silence;  now  it  was  the  altar  of  the  god 
of  another  fire.  Worshipers  crowded  at  the  altar; 
they  stood  by  their  millions  in  all  the  open  spaces; 
the  oaks  and  pines  and  maples  chanted  the  service, 
the  humblest  bluet  heard  the  call  to  prayer.  The 
world  made  itself  over.  The  warm  air  stung  like 
a  rain  of  needles.  Allie  was  looking  at  me  with 
large  eyes.  She  was  a  woman;  I  a  man. 

"Come,"  I  said,  "let's  go  home."  The  strangest 
feeling  of  ecstatic  terror  had  hold  of  me. 

Allie  no  longer  danced  as  we  went  away  toward 
Paul  Dyer's;  she  had  come  beyond  dancing  into 
those  remoter  and  more  shadowy  regions  of  happi 
ness  from  which  one  may  not  send  back  word  so 
easily.  I  remembered  how  I  had  seen  Dedos  and 
the  Handkerchief  Lady's  daughter  walking  across 
the  sand,  far  apart  and  unmindful  of  one  another, 
and  here  were  we  doing  the  same  thing,  walking  with 
a  sort  of  stiff  formality,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
sandy  road.  A  certain  combination  of  words  was 
running  through  my  brain — two  short  words.  It 
is  curious  that  the  simple  thought  of  a  certain  set 

189 


STORM 

of  air-vibrations  can  throw  a  man  into  such  a  fever, 
but  there  I  was,  tramping  along  solemnly  and  think 
ing  about  those  two  words.  At  the  crest  of  the 
First  Ridge  I  spoke  them  aloud: 

"My— wife— " 

The  loveliness  and  sweetness  of  Allie  Snow  was 
always  a  fresh  discovery  to  me.  At  the  look  of  her 
now  I  realized  for  the  thousandth  time  that  For 
tune  was  a  blind  god  to  pick  out  a  dumb,  heavy 
mortal  for  this  creature  of  light. 

"When  shall  we  be  married,  Joe?" 

"Next  month—" 

The  step  was  taken.  I  had  all  the  sensations  of 
a  man  coming  suddenly  into  a  strange,  broad  ave 
nue  in  his  own  little  town.  I  looked  at  Allie, 
wondering  if  she,  too,  had  felt  the  momentous 
change. 

"Allie — sweetheart — what  is  the  matter?" 

She  seemed  to  shiver;  her  hands  were  plucking 
at  one  another;  her  eyes  narrowed  as  if  in  pain. 
It  had  all  come  about  so  abruptly  that  my  mind 
went  blank.  "What — what  is  it?"  I  implored. 
Her  voice  had  the  same  quality  of  horror  in  it  when 
she  ran  to  me  and  clutched  my  arm  and  cried: 

"Will  you  marry  me  to-night,  Joe — this  after- 

*)» 
noonr 

"Why,  Allie — "  The  idea  was  thrust  at  me  too 
suddenly  for  me  to  grasp  it.  I  heard  myself  mum 
bling  words  that  meant  nothing,  while  I  struggled 
numbly  to  bring  order  into  my  brain.  There  were 
impossibilities,  other  impossibilities  came  and  piled 
upon  them.  "What  would  people  say?"  I  heard 
myself  expostulating.  "We  couldn't  get  ready. 

190 


STORM 

It  upsets  everything.  You  know  Old  Harbor — how 
it  whispers — " 

It  was  utterly  beyond  me  to  understand  the  girl. 
Why  did  she  cling  to  me  so  desperately  and  watch 
my  face  as  though  her  life  or  death  lay  in  it? 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  of  a  sudden.  I  felt  her 
hands  slipping  from  my  arms.  "It  isn't  anything. 
I'm  just  silly." 

We  walked  on  soberly,  I  with  a  sense  of  relief. 
I  examined  her  face  furtively.  It  was  still  rigid,  but 
I  could  make  out  no  show  of  what  went  on  behind  it. 

"Allie,"  I  appealed  again,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing." 

As  we  came  out  of  the  Cold  Storage  fields  a 
flower  of  smoke  caught  my  eye.  For  the  first  time 
that  season  the  porgie  fleet  moved  in  around  Long 
Point,  smothering  the  light  buildings  with  its  dingy 
breathings. 

When  I  left  Allie  at  the  porch  of  the  apple-green 
house  she  was  trembling  again.  She  did  not  look 
at  me.  I  could  not  understand  what  she  said,  but 
I  felt  that  she  wanted  me  to  go  quickly.  There 
was  a  wall  of  something.  I  beat  my  hands  against 
its  impalpable  substance.  I  was  bruised  and  bewil 
dered. 

"She's  sick,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  went  away. 

I  got  up  from  my  supper  that  night,  folded  my 
napkin  with  painful  accuracy,  walked  to  the  win 
dow,  stared  out  aimlessly,  and  muttered,  "She's 
sick." 

I  went  into  my  room  and  sat  on  my  bed.  "She's 
sick,"  I  told  myself. 

I  clung  to  that  assertion  as  a  starving  man  will 

191 


STORM 

cling  to  a  crust.  The  dark  came  into  Shank 
Painter,  ran  along  its  floor,  obtruded  its  presence 
from  doorways  and  yards.  I  wanted  light.  I 
struck  a  match,  lit  a  candle,  and  sat  very  close  to 
it  in  my  cheerless  room  and  muttered  again: 
"Allie  is  sick." 

I  can  laugh  now  at  some  of  the  bizarre  things  in 
my  life,  but  I  can  never  smile  at  the  memory  of  my 
clinging  to  that  hope  that  Allie  might  be  sick. 

There  were  men  in  the  street  outside.  One 
knocked  at  my  door.  I  went  out  to  find  Sam 
Stull,  captain  of  the  Unworn,  panting  and  gesturing. 

"They're  raisin'  hell  down-street,"  he  wheezed. 

"Who?" 

"Steamer-men — Black  Caps.  Gome  on  down, 
Manta." 

"What  for?"  It  was  nothing  to  me  if  they  tore 
the  town  apart  that  evening.  I  wanted  to  get  back 
to  my  candle  and  my  formula  of  hope. 

"See  these  here  men?"  He  swung  an  arm  at  the 
dark  knot  behind  him.  "They's  four  crews  waitin' 
down  by  the  Glen,  an'  they'll  run  in  an'  beat  hell 
out  o'  them  bastards  if  you'll  take  'em." 

Here  was  balm  for  a  sore  spirit — a  Yankee  cap 
tain  running  to  the  door  of  Tony  Manta's  boy  to 
tell  him  such  a  thing  as  this.  My  words  became 
things  of  weight,  to  be  handled  with  careful  dignity. 

"They're  all  right — those  steamer-men,"  I  pro 
nounced.  "I  know  some  of  them.  They're  just 
like  you  or  me — no  better,  no  worse." 

The  man  stared  and  opened  his  mouth.  The 
crowd  behind  him  stirred  with  amazement;  one 
of  them  simpered:  "Oh— hell!"  I  was  filled  with 

192 


STORM 

a  rage  at  the  fools.  Who  was  it  that  drove  the 
men  off  the  doomed  Fortune?  Who  was  it  that 
brought  the  Arbitrator  into  shelter  the  night  the 
Mary  Sedgwick  went  on  the  Plymouth  shore? 

"Those  fellows  won't  hurt  you,"  I  reiterated, 
conscious  of  my  patience  with  these  agitators. 
Then  I  closed  the  door  upon  them  and  retired  to 
the  wan  comfort  of  my  candle.  I  heard  the  rustling 
of  their  voices  and  feet  outside,  and  then  the  dis 
creet  movement  of  a  heavy  body  through  the  ad 
joining  room,  followed  by  the  opening  and  closing 
of  a  door.  So  Dedos  was  one  of  the  lightheads  too. 

I  was  sore  and  tired  and  black  of  spirit.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  preposterous  thing  that  grown  men  could 
not  slough  off  this  childish  lust  for  banging  fists  and 
breaking  heads,  but  instead  must  come  pattering 
through  the  night  to  disturb  a  man  at  his  brooding. 
The  steamer-men  had  always  come  ashore  in  Old 
Harbor.  They  acted  as  normal  men  would  act: 
they  would  fight  a  little,  perhaps,  break  a  few  win 
dows  and  fences;  it  was  not  so  desperate  a  thing, 
after  all. 

"Allie  is  sick."  I  found  myself  back  at  it  again. 
But  I  had  grown  too  nervous  for  my  room  to  hold 
me.  I  put  on  my  hat  and  went  out  into  the  dark 
street.  If  she  were  sick  there  would  be  a  light  in 
her  room.  There  could  be  no  harm  in  taking  a 
turn  to  the  street  of  the  three  angles.  At  any  rate, 
I  had  to  be  on  the  move  somewhere. 

The  house  was  dark  when  I  came  to  it,  save  for 
a  light  in  the  hall  which  always  burned.  I  heard 
the  creak  of  rockers  from  the  front  porch,  and  that 
was  a  reassuring  sound,  for  something  out  of  the 

193 


STORM 

ordinary  must  be  afoot  to  have  Mr.  Snow  up  at 
this  time.  He  had  not  gone  about  much  of  evenings 
since  the  "  mistake."  I  called  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"Is  Allie  all  right,  Mr.  Snow?" 

I  heard  the  rocker  groan  as  Mr.  Snow  got  up, 
and  then  the  sound  of  his  feet  on  the  walk.  He 
had  aged  very  rapidly  of  late:  it  was  the  shuffle  of 
an  old  man  that  came  toward  me.  But  when  he 
stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate,  peering  up  at 
me,  I  was  conscious  of  the  old  aura  of  power  come 
back  upon  him  for  the  moment,  by  what  miracle 
I  could  not  say.  His  face  that  had  grown  so  pale 
was  flushed  a  little  now. 

"Is  that  you,  Manta?"  he  piped.  "Well — go  on 
your  ways.  I'm  tired  o'  you  ginnies  hangin'  'round 
here." 

And  three  days  before  he  had  fawned  on  me  so 
that  it  gave  me  a  feeling  of  sickness.  I  ignored  him 
now  as  one  would  an  insane  man.  I  had  waited  for 
those  words  many  months,  and  now  that  they  were 
uttered  I  thought  him  crazy. 

"Is  Allie  all  right?"  I  repeated,  patiently,  shoving 
the  gate  open  a  crack  with  my  foot.  "I  must  see 
Allie,  do  you  understand?" 

Then  he  was  insane.  He  threw  his  fragile  weight 
against  the  gate  and  struck  at  my  arms  with  his 
clawed  hands  and  chattered  nonsense. 

"You • ginny,  you — you .  I'll  fix 

you—  Help!" 

''Father!    Joel" 

Allie  was  only  a  shadow  of  gray  in  the  darkness 
by  the  porch. 

"Allie,"  I  called  to  her,  "are  you—" 

194 


STORM 

"Joe,"  she  broke  out,  but  with  an  appealing 
desperation  that  made  me  shudder,  "please  don't 
come  in.  I  ask  you  please,  Joe,  not  to  come  in. 
Good  night." 

"Good  night."  I  turned  and  walked  away  in  a 
sort  of  daze,  muttering  again,  "Allie's  sick,"  and 
behind  me  the  old  man  crouched  down  ecstatically, 
with  his  head  poked  over  the  gate,  and  jeered  after 

me:  "See — see — you girmy."  A  boy  of 

ten  would  do  it  so.. 

That  was  not  all  I  heard.  There  was  Allie's  voice 
mingling  with  her  father's,  low  and  tense. 

"Father,  father,  won't  you  please  come  in  and 
go  to  bed?  I'll  manage  it  this  once.  Please — for 
my  sake — please." 

I  did  not  know  where  I  went,  and  I  did  not  care. 
The  front  street  was  checkered  with  knots  of  men 
when  I  came  into  it.  I  went  straight  along,  and 
these  knots  moved  out  of  my  way.  I  could  hear 
them  whispering  about  me  after  I  had  passed. 
There  was  a  fight  of  some  sort  going  on  behind 
Swift's  store;  oaths  and  sounds  of  shuffling  on 
boards  and  a  groan  came  out  into  the  street.  Win 
dows  crashed  about  the  invisible  brawling-field.  I 
heard  one  man  shouting  for  another  to  come,  and 
recognized  Harry  Bomar's  voice.  But  this  was  no 
matter  for  wonder.  The  Bomar  boys,  three  of  them, 
had  always  been  the  hottest  against  the  steamer- 
men.  I  kicked  an  empty  flask  and  almost  fell,  near 
the  post-office  street.  The  Black  Caps  were  drink 
ing. 

It  was  a  strange  night.  I  had  a  feeling  of  stalking 
through  a  lighted  ball-room,  with  a  battle-field  rum- 

195 


STORM 

bling  under  the  windows.  No  one  fought,  but  there 
was  fighting  all  around.  I  saw  a  crowd  up  the  Glen, 
standing  in  front  of  the  Ide  girls'  house.  They  were 
lean  girls — the  Ide  girls.  In  the  years  since  I  have 
been  away  from  Old  Harbor  I  have  been  able  to 
speculate  more  philosophically  upon  my  memories. 
I  have  often  thought  that  the  Ide  girls  may  have 
gotten  more  real  joy  out  of  life  than  some  of  the 
neighbors  who  threw  stones.  The  town  gave  them 
a  bad  name;  they  accepted  it  and  shook  it  gaily 
in  the  town's  face,  wringing  a  sort  of  tawdry  ro 
mance  out  of  the  adventurous  isolation. 

But  where  was  I  going?  Oh  yes,  I  knew  now. 
I  had  to  stop  thinking  about  that  scene  at  the  gate 
of  the  apple-green  house,  and  so  I  was  going  to 
find  Jock  Crimson.  There  was  too  much  fighting 
and  breaking  of  things  going  on — Crimson  and  I 
could  talk  it  over  as  one  man  of  importance  to 
another. 

As  I  passed  Gabriel  Danzio's  fruit  store  I  saw 
a  crowd  of  steamer -men  plundering  the  shelves 
inside  and  heard  the  fat  proprietor  in  ponderous 
flight  up  an  invisible  alley,  with  bottles  and  fruit 
raining  on  the  walls  about  him.  His  son,  Jamie, 
a  slim  youth  with  the  looks  of  his  mother,  as  I 
remember  her,  fraternized  with  the  marauders  and 
laughed  at  the  diminishing  clamor  of  his  flight.  I 
did  not  pause  here.  I  went  on  to  the  open  square 
at  the  head  of  Long  Wharf. 

The  place  was  almost  filled  with  the  shiny  black 
caps  of  the  steamer-men,  so  that  I  stared  across  a 
heaving  carpet  of  them.  The  squares  of  light  from 
the  shop  windows,  broken  into  smaller  squares  by 

196 


STORM 

the  many  little  panes,  gave  the  gathering  a  kaleido 
scopic  effect  of  shattered  illumination. 

"Crimson  here?"  I  shouted  over  the  heads. 

It  was  evident  that  the  question  had  not  been 
expected.  No  one  answered.  Far  back  in  the 
crowd  a  man  laughed.  Then  all  of  them  began  to 
grin,  and  I  saw  some  whispering  to  their  neighbors 
behind  their  hands.  I  was  growing  impatient. 

"Where's  Crimson?"  I  bawled,  and  this  time 
I  singled  out  one  to  give  me  my  answer — a  young 
fellow  in  a  purple  shirt  directly  ahead  of  me — 
pointing  at  him  with  a  crooked  finger.  He  blushed 
as  prettily  as  a  girl,  turned  abashed  eyes  to  one  and 
another  of  his  companions,  and  when  he  saw  my 
finger  still  demanding  of  him,  he  waved  a  hand  up- 
street  and  ducked  in  to  the  throng  while  the  older  men 
jeered  at  him.  It  was  one  of  these  who  cried  to  me: 

"Want  to  fight  'im,  Manta?" 

"No,"  I  gave  him  back,  turned,  and  lumbered 
away  to  the  westward,  vaguely  conscious  of  men 
I  knew  staring  and  scowling  at  me  from  the  mouths 
of  dark  lanes,  and  of  Dedos,  waddling  forth  to  get 
in  my  way.  I  pushed  him  off  roughly.  Something 
in  the  direction  of  that  young  fellow's  fluttering 
gesture,  accidental  perhaps,  had  opened  my  mind 
to  a  black  possibility.  And  in  that  dark  instant 
half-forgotten,  puzzling  words  and  actions  and  in 
sinuations  rushed  together  and  became  clarified. 

I  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  apple-green  house, 
breathing  from  my  headlong  progress  up  the  front 
street  and  staring  painfully  into  the  shadows.  The 
front  door  opened,  breaking  an  oblong  of  light  into 
the  building's  black  hulk. 

197 


STORM 

So  I  had  found  Jock  Crimson. 

He  stood  there  in  the  illuminated  oblong,  half 
filling  it  with  his  flat  black  silhouette,  and  by  his 
side  was  a  lesser  silhouette  which  was  Allie  Snow. 
He  had  his  arm  about  her,  pressing  her  close. 
Beyond,  where  the  full  light  fell  over  his  skinny 
figure,  Allie's  father  watched  them  and  rubbed  his 
hands  together,  for  all  the  world  like  a  clothing 
merchant  consummating  a  profitable  deal. 

This  is  the  thing  I  saw  there.  For  a  moment  I 
could  not  think.  The  channels  of  my  brain  were 
clogged  with  a  phlegm.  I  must  have  been  standing 
where  the  light  from  the  door  would  pick  me  out, 
for  Crimson's  eyes  came  to  me.  He  lifted  his  free 
hand,  clutched  at  the  air  as  though  to  tear  the  night 
apart  in  the  exuberance  of  his  vitality,  and  bellowed 
at  me  joyously:  "Ay,  cap'n!  How  arre  yoo?" 

"How  are  you,  cap'n?"  I  shouted  back,  dully. 

Then  I  turned  my  face  toward  the  front  street 
and  stumbled  away,  quite  blind.  Some  one  was 
beside  me,  running  along  at  my  pace.  Finally  I 
knew  that  it  was  my  brother,  Man'el.  He  was 
pale  too — as  pale  as  I  must  have  been.  But  he  was 
Man'el.  He  could  grin  at  me  and  mock  me  and 
cry  in  my  ear,  jerkily  with  the  running: 

"You've — had  a — long — sleep — eh,  Joe?" 

I  struck  him  on  the  shoulder,  sending  him  away 
in  the  darkness,  and  ran  on.  I  was  far  up  toward 
the  salt-marshes  before  I  had  any  realization  of 
what  I  was  doing,  and  then  I  found  myself  stumbling 
along  and  muttering  to  myself  over  and  over  and 
over: 

"I  ask  you  please  not  to  come  in."     "Father, 

198 


STORM 

father,  won't  you  please  come  in  and  go  to  bed? 
I'll  manage  it  this  once.  Please — for  my  sake- 
please." 

That  was  a  cold  night.  I  did  not  go  back  to 
Shank  Painter,  but  wandered  about  the  country  to 
the  westward,  shivering  and  trying  not  to  think. 
Strangely  enough,  I  cannot  recollect  where  I  went 
that  cold  night.  I  have  only  a  dim  memory  of 
paths  leading  here  and  there,  all  alike  and  all  hor 
rible,  dark,  and  hopeless.  Some  train  of  habit  was 
at  work  within  my  brain,  however,  and  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  found  me,  damp  and  hag 
gard,  standing  on  the  beach  among  my  men,  who 
grunted  over  the  dories.  Then  I  remembered  we 
were  to  sail  at  three — I  had  set  the  time  myself. 

No  one  spoke  to  me.  They  chattered  in  whispers 
among  themselves,  feverishly,  perhaps  because  they 
did  not  want  to  speak  to  me.  We  had  two  dories 
ashore.  Dedos  kept  away  from  me  all  the  time 
we  were  launching,  and  I  saw  him  manoeuver  care 
fully  so  that  he  should  go  in  the  other  boat. 

The  men  kept  up  their  low  chatter  as  they  rowed 
out  toward  the  vessel.  Now  and  then  I  caught 
fragments  of  their  talk.  I  heard  the  names  of  the 
Bomar  boys:  "He'll  never  walk  again,  Miah 
won't."  "Wonder  what  their  man  will  say  now. 
One  co'pse  an'  two  cr'pples.  God  damn  'em — I'd 
like  to- 

I  cannot  say  that  I  was  astonished  or  shaken  by 
the  grim  burden  of  those  rags  of  talk.  It  was  not 
news :  it  seemed  that  I  had  known  it  all  from  birth. 
It  chimed  in  too  precisely  with  the  horrible  orches 
tration  of  that  night  to  prick  my  interest.  One  of 

199 


STORM 

the  Bomar  boys  killed,  the  others  broken.  Yes; 
but  Allie  Snow  was  dead  of  her  sickness. 

I  stood  on  the  after-deck  and  directed  the  busi 
ness  of  getting  the  vessel  under  way.  We  moved 
out  of  the  anchorage,  filled,  came  about  on  the 
port  tack  to  the  east,  and  slid  silently  along  parallel 
to  the  water-front.  A  cluster  of  lights  at  the  end 
of  Long  Wharf  marked  the  transient  city  of  the 
steamers.  The  breath  of  their  soft  coal  drifted  out 
across  us;  lights  moved  here  and  there  along  the 
streets  made  up  of  decks,  side  by  side.  They  were 
getting  ready  to  move  out  themselves  upon  the 
business  of  the  day. 

Man'el  came  aft  and  sat  on  the  deck-house. 

"So  you  never  knowed,"  he  said.  "Never,  all 
this  time  it's  been  goin'  on,  you  never  knowed. 
You  poor  fool,  Joe." 

I  continued  to  stare  at  the  lights  in  a  hopeless, 
dull  way.  Man'el  went  on. 

"D'you  know  what  Crimson  said  up  to  the  square 
last  night — afterward?  Huh?  Right  out  before  all 
his  men?  He  says  he'll  take  that  girl  away  with 
him — home — next  time  the  fleet  comes  to  this  port. 
Can  you  swallow  that — eh,  Joe?" 

I  could  not  swallow  anything,  for  there  was  some 
thing  tight  about  my  throat. 


XVI 

AGNES  CARRIES  IN  HER  OWN  WOOD 

THERE  used  to  be  a  certain  shelf  in  Miah 
Swift's  store,  when  I  was  a  boy,  that  furnished 
me  with  a  subject  for  unfailing  wonderment.  This 
shelf,  perhaps  four  or  five  feet  in  length,  exhibited  a 
file  of  bottles  of  every  color  and  every  shape  known 
to  human  perception.  Now  each  of  these  bottles 
contained  an  infallible  remedy  for  some  particular 
human  ill.  The  characteristic  which  knit  the  whole 
company  into  a  common  relationship  was  the  fact 
that  all  the  labels  were  white,  and,  further,  that, 
besides  its  own  particular  ailment,  each  compound 
was  beneficial,  at  a  pinch,  for  all  the  other  disorders 
to  which  man  is  heir.  It  was  only  after  a  prolonged 
mental  struggle  that  I  could  understand  this  phe 
nomenon.  However,  enlightenment  was  given  me 
and  the  eternal  verities  put  in  countenance  when  I 
learned  at  Old  Harbor  school  that  the  sum  of  all 
colors  is  white.  Each  separate  disease  had  its  own 
color,  then,  but  the  ultimate  total  of  bodily  dis 
tress  was  white. 

Since  I  have  grown  up  I  have  discovered  that 
there  is  only  one  panacea — the  accretion  of  seconds 
and  minutes  and  days.  Habit  is  the  physician  that 

will  pull  a  man  through.     Most  wounds  will  heal 

201 


STORM 

if  only  the  sufferer  will  eat  his  meals,  go  to  bed  at 
night,  get  up  in  the  morning,  earn  his  living,  and 
go  for  walks.  He  may  be  numb  all  over,  but  he  is 
mending.  One  day  he  will  wake  up  to  find  himself 
in  health. 

It  was  on  an  evening  in  late  August  that  I  woke 
up.  We  were  at  supper,  but  the  low  sun  still  made 
a  brilliant  checkerwork  on  the  front-room  carpet, 
to  be  seen  through  an  open  door  from  the  dining- 
room.  The  children  were  laughing  merrily  over 
something  one  of  them  had  said. 

"Aren't  they  happy  to  be  alive?"  I  found  myself 
thinking.  "They  have  everything  before  them, 
and  they're  happy." 

Why  should  they  not  be  happy?  Agnes  had 
planted  some  climbing  roses  at  the  back  of  the 
house  the  spring  after  she  came  to  Shank  Painter. 
Now  they  covered  the  windows,  and  the  air,  filtering 
through  the  mesh  of  blossoms,  filled  the  room  with 
their  fragrant  exhalations.  A  company  of  little 
birds  tumbled  out  of  the  air,  made  a  riot  in  the 
garden  for  a  moment,  and  then  tumbled  off  over 
the  neighboring  yards. 

"Is  the  linguisa  good  to-night,  Joe?" 

I  found  Agnes  looking  at  me  with  her  queer, 
bright  smile,  questioning.  And  then  I  discovered 
that  the  linguisa  was  good.  I  told  her  so,  passed 
my  plate  for  another  supply,  and  ate  a  great  deal 
of  it.  I  could  not  get  away  from  that  happy  look 
of  Agnes's.  Wherever  I  turned  my  eyes  they  came 
upon  it  reflected  in  sounds,  odors,  faces,  inanimate 
things.  I  discovered  myself  laughing  in  a  tentative 
sort  of  way  at  a  heavy  joke  of  Dedos's.  He  got  up 

202 


STORM 

and  went  to  the  cupboard  for  a  spoon.  Now  I 
made  a  fresh  discovery.  Dedos  walked  like  the 
elephant  that  came  to  Old  Harbor  when  I  was 
twelve. 

On  the  heels  of  this  came  the  memory  of  what 
I  had  said  to  my  mother  under  the  great  brown 
tent.  "He  walks  lek  Uncle  Dedos,  ma." 

It  is  curious  how  one  little  memory  will  bring  a 
thousand  others  in  its  train.  While  I  sat  there  and 
lifted  a  fork  from  the  plate  to  my  mouth  a  whole 
company  of  years  rushed  out  of  the  grave  where  I 
had  buried  them  and  stood  beside  me,  glowing 
with  the  familiar  colors  of  life.  Dedos  had  settled 
down  in  his  chair  once  more,  and  I  caught  him  in 
the  act  of  winking  at  his  wife.  It  was  apparent  that 
he  labored  under  a  necessity  for  speech. 

"I  see  Lem  Dow  t'day,"  he  observed,  with  painful 
nonchalance. 

"Is  that  so?"  Agnes  followed  him.  "What  did 
he  have  to  offer?"  I  decided  later  that  this  had 
been  rehearsed. 

"Po'gees  goeen'  sout'.  Don*  'spect  fleet  back 
thees  way  no  more  thees  year,  he  say." 

They  took  me  in  so  completely  that  I  found  it 
necessary  to  appear  uninterested. 

"She  was  sick,"  I  suddenly  pronounced  to  my 
self.  The  laughter  and  roses  and  chatter  of  birds 
and  checkers  of  sunshine  had  done  their  work.  It 
was  not  till  I  marked  the  astonishment  on  the 
others'  faces  that  I  realized  I  had  spoken  aloud. 
My  knife  and  fork  went  clattering  in  my  plate  to 
cover  my  confusion,  I  pushed  back  my  chair, 

started  to  go  to  my  room,  and  then,  instead,  turned 

203 


STORM 

toward  Agnes's  chair.  Just  at  that  moment  she 
held  in  herself  all  the  warmth  and  kindliness  and 
affection  of  a  world  that  was  beginning.  I  leaned 
over  with  an  impulse  that  was  beyond  me,  put  my 
arms  about  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her  hair. 

"There!"  I  challenged,  confronting  Dedos  with 
a  face  of  defiance.  The  huge  fellow  rumbled  with 
heavings  of  delight. 

"Look  out  for  me,  Zhoe  Manta."  He  popped  a 
terrible  fusillade  of  fingers  at  me. 

Agnes  turned  and  looked  up,  pink  with  happiness. 

"Why  don't  you  go  out  in  the  garden,  Joe?  It's 
such  a  fine  evening." 

Was  that  a  nod  that  passed  between  the  two? 

"Perhaps  I  will  after  a  while.  I've  got  some 
work  to  do  now — accounts." 

I  went  into  my  room  and  set  myself  to  a  task 
that  was  always  the  hardest  portion  of  my  steward 
ship.  I  could  never  see  why  old  man  Nickerson 
should  need  figures  on  paper  to  prove  that  I  had 
taken  such  or  such  a  weight  of  fish.  If  I  gave  him 
the  money,  there  was  the  thing  settled  and  done  for 
without  bother  to  either.  I  always  fumed  and  sweat 
over  the  business.  But  to-night,  somehow,  I  could 
not  fume  or  sweat  or  take  it  seriously.  After  sitting 
there  at  my  table  half  an  hour  there  was  not  so 
much  as  a  pen-scratch  on  the  paper  in  front  of  me. 

"She  was  sick."  This  was  the  only  result  at 
which  my  figuring  arrived. 

I  heard  Agnes  moving  about  in  the  adjoining 
room;  I  thought  I  heard  a  muffled  snort  from 
Dedos,  then  the  creak  of  hinges  opening  and  closing 
cautiously,  and  Agnes's  fingers  tapping  at  my  door. 

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STORM 

"Joe,"  she  complained,  "my  man's  gone  out, 
and  the  children — I  wonder  if  you'd  get  me  a  little 
wood  from  the  shed." 

Now  this  was  preposterous.  I  had  heard  her 
"man"  sneaking  out  the  second  before.  And  even 
with  him  out  of  the  question,  Agnes  had  never  asked 
any  one  to  bring  in  wood  for  her.  She  was  a  fisher 
man's  wife. 

Of  course  I  went,  quickly  enough,  but  I  wondered. 
And  then,  when  I  had  opened  the  door,  my  wonder 
was  that  I  had  sat  in  my  close  room  when  the  night 
was  out  of  doors.  The  smell  of  lush  growth  came 
up  from  the  earth,  stars  struggled  into  their  places 
in  the  quiet  dome  overhead,  a  million  millions  of 
leaves  waved  a  whisper  along  the  Cape,  frogs  were 
droning  somewhere  far  away,  and  nearer  at  hand 
the  placid  water  lapped  along  the  beaches. 

I  had  a  sudden  thought  of  going  down  to  the 
street  of  the  three  angles,  but  I  put  it  away  as 
suddenly.  No,  I  could  not  do  that.  Let  me  live 
a  little  longer.  Then  perhaps — one  day. 

I  crunched  along  the  sandy  path  between  the 
shells  with  which  Agnes  had  bordered  it  (perhaps 
with  some  memory  of  the  motley  house  in  the 
dunes)  toward  the  dim  loom  of  the  shed  in  the 
rear.  My  eyes  happened  upon  a  strange  shadow  by 
the  fence,  and  for  an  instant  I  gasped  and  gulped 
with  the  queer  start  it  gave  me. 

"Steady,  Joe,"  I  cautioned.  "Don't  begin  seeing 
things  now."  A  bush  I  had  never  noticed,  prob 
ably — but  it  had  made  me  think  of  her,  standing 
there  in  the  dusk.  I  fumbled  for  the  latch  of  the 
door. 

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STORM 

"Pa-Jim." 

Oh,  I  shall  remember  till  the  end  of  my  memory 
the  breathless  quality  of  that  low  cry  in  the  night 
— the  sob  of  fright  that  was  behind  it  but  did  not 
make  it  falter — the  valor  of  the  act. 

I  found  myself  shivering  and  grabbing  at  the 
latch  as  though  there  were  no  other  end  in  man's 
life  but  the  opening  of  a  wood-shed  door. 

"Joe!     Oh,  Joe!     Joe!" 

And  then  I  came  into  the  lane — how,  I  cannot  say. 
I  only  know  that  my  arms  were  about  Allie  Snow, 
and  that  the  stars  had  established  themselves  in  the 
sky.  I  tried  to  look  at  her  face,  but  it  was  buried 
in  the  folds  of  my  coat,  and  her  voice  struggled  up 
to  me. 

"Joe,  I  was  sick  when  you  saw  me  there.  Oh, 
if  I  could  only  tell  you  why!  I  will,  some  day.  I 
was  sick—" 

"I  know,  sweetheart." 

Why,  of  course  I  knew.  Had  I  not  known  it  from 
the  beginning — had  I  not  said  it  when  she  stood 
so  white  and  rigid  on  her  porch?  And  there  I  was, 
blubbering  like  a  child  of  three  and  patting  her  hair 
and  mumbling  for  her  not  to  cry,  and  generally 
making  a  spectacle  of  myself.  In  truth,  she  was  not 
crying  at  all,  but  dry-eyed  and  breathing  hard  and 
a  little  frightened,  as  one  who  has  called  into  a 
blank  and  beheld  a  world  created  at  her  hail. 

We  went  away  into  the  back  country — that  back 
country  we  both  loved  so  well — and  I  am  afraid 
that  Agnes  carried  in  her  own  wood. 

Neither  of  us  said  much  for  a  time.  We  were 
children  who  had  not  yet  learned  to  talk  and  ven- 

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STORM 

tured  upon  the  learning  awkwardly.  I  have  often 
thought  there  was  a  certain  curious  symbolism  in 
that  walk  through  the  woods.  We  went  along  at 
a  furious  rate,  both  of  us  panting.  We  ran  up 
hills,  we  rushed  through  thick-set  paths,  we  floun 
dered  across  cranberry-bogs,  jet-black  under  the 
rays  of  the  moon  low  over  the  sand.  Each  of  us  had 
the  feeling  that  we  must  cover  a  vast  amount  of 
ground  in  the  shortest  time  possible.  And  so  we 
rushed  through  the  back  country. 

As  I  have  said,  we  went  in  silence,  but  it  was 
enough  for  me  to  look  down  now  and  then  and 
find  my  Allie's  face  shining  up  at  me  in  the  silver 
light  and  touch  her  fingers  with  my  own. 

We  came  and  stood  in  the  hollow,  facing  each 
other.  She  was  more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever 
seen  her — perhaps  because  she  was  older.  She  had 
been  through  the  flame,  and  the  flame  had  cleaned 
away  all  but  the  woman  of  her.  It  may  be  that 
the  scorching  had  done  something  for  my  eyes  as 
well.  She  was  all  white  and  gray  in  that  placid 
illumination,  like  a  spiritual  figure  moving  in  one's 
dream. 

"Come,"  I  said;  "let's  go  home."  That  is  what 
I  had  said  the  other  time.  By  some  occult  stroke 
those  words  of  mine,  repeated,  seemed  to  erase 
something  of  the  interval  between.  When  we 
came  to  the  ridge  over  the  town  I  must  efface  it 
further  by  repeating,  "My — wife." 

"When  shall  we  be  married?"  Allie  asked,  turning 
with  a  gasp  of  happiness  as  she  understood  my 
stratagem. 

"To-night."    I  took  both  her  hands. 

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STORM 

"No,  Joe;  next  month  will  do — now." 

And,  failure  that  I  was,  I  could  not  look  at  her 
dear,  smiling  face,  but  bent  my  head  and  kissed 
the  palms  of  her  hands. 

"It  will  be  next  month,  Allie?"  I  must  be  sure 
of  it." 

"Yes,  Joe — if  you  want  it  so.    And  Joe — " 

She  hesitated  so  long  that  I  began  to  be  afraid. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Joe — I'm  wondering  if  we  couldn't  go  and  live 
somewhere — away  from  here." 

"In  December,"  I  told  her,  "I'm  going  to  take 
the  master's  examinations  in  the  city.  And  after 
that  we  can  go  wherever  ships  can  go." 

We  came  back  to  the  apple-green  house  and  sat 
together  on  the  steps.  The  old  man  rocked  in  the 
shadow  behind  us,  but  the  dreary  rhythm  of  his 
creaking  and  the  occasional  whine  of  his  complain 
ing  at  my  intrusion  could  not  mar  the  happiness 
of  the  night  for  me.  The  world  was  so  good  that 
nothing  evil  could  exist  in  it.  I  thought  of  Jock 
Crimson,  and  of  how  he  had  stood  under  the  flare 
of  a  lantern  waving  his  good  will  to  a  pair  of 
vagabonds. 

"I  know  Crimson,"  I  said,  suddenly.  Allie's 
hand  tightened  a  little  on  mine,  that  was  all. 

"I  like  Crimson,"  I  went  on,  expanding  in  the 
kindly  night.  "He  was  very  good  to  me  once  upon 
a  time.  I  think  he  is —  But  Allie  broke  into  my 
speech  with  a  hand  pressing  my  lips  and  a  fierce 
appeal  in  her  words. 

"Don't,  Joe— don't  talk  that  way.  Tell  me  you 
hate  him.  Tell  me  you  would  kill  him  if  you  saw 

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STORM 

him  now — this  minute — here.  Joe — my  Joe — tell 
me — please." 

I  pulled  her  hand  from  my  mouth,  turned,  and 
stared  at  her.  This  bitter  rush  of  hers  had  taken 
my  breath  away.  I  found  her  staring  back  at  me, 
dumb  and  frightened.  So  we  sat  for  a  space  of 
seconds,  and  then  she  leaned  nearer  and  hid  her 
face  in  my  coat. 

"It's  nothing,  Joe.  I'm  happy  to-night — just 
happy.  Please  be  happy  too." 

I  could  not  understand,  but  I  could  be  happy. 

A  man  stumped  past  the  gate,  crackling  the 
gravel  at  the  point  of  a  wooden  leg.  I  knew  him  for 
Charlie  Dyer,  skipper  of  that  Mary  Sedgwick  that 
had  gone  to  pieces  on  the  Plymouth  shore. 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  of  the  gale,  sweet 
heart — the  night  I  came  back?" 

Her  arms  tightened  about  my  neck. 

"There  goes  Dyer.  He'll  never  walk  so  well 
from  that  night." 

Allie's  face  came  up,  and  she  asked  me  a  ques 
tion. 

"Why  did  he  go  on  that  night?" 

"Just  to  beat  us,  Allie." 

"Did  he  know  that  storm  was  coming?" 

"He  must  have.    He  had  a  glass." 

"And  he  went  on  anyway?" 

"Yes." 

She  was  looking  away  from  me  now — very  far 
away,  it  seemed  to  me. 

"Dearest,"  I  implored,  "what's  the  matter?"  I 
was  beyond  my  depth  once  more. 

"Nothing,  Joe."    Her  arms  were  about  my  shoul- 

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STORM 

ders  again.     "Just  let  me  be  glad  to-night — make 
me  be  happy.    I  love  you  so  very  much." 

It  is  not  always  pleasant  to  sit  alone  in  one's 
room.  It  is  bearable,  however,  when  one  can  make 
out  low  voices  in  a  neighboring  room,  happy  laugh 
ter,  rustling  of  cloth,  and  rumors  of  whispering, 
and  may  gather  from  these  invisible  phenomena 
that  the  wedding-dress  is  getting  on. 

And  then  perhaps  I  would  venture  through  the 
doorway,  having  forgotten,  and  there  was  Agnes 
holding  up  horrified  hands  to  tell  me  not  to  dare 
another  step,  for  I  must  not  see.  But  perhaps  I 
did  see  a  fleck  of  white  through  the  front-room  door; 
or,  if  I  did  not  see,  at  least  I  could  hear  a  voice  I 
loved  calling  to  me,  "Dear — please,  please  don't." 

If  a  man  have  a  few  memories  such  as  these  to 
keep  him  company,  then  he  may  see  a  deal  of  bad 
times  and  come  through  them. 

Dedos  had  taken  upon  himself  the  part  of  wary 
sentinel  to  scan  the  horizon.  His  heavy  effects  of 
unconcern  had  me  at  the  point  of  roaring  more  than 
once.  At  supper-time  he  would  fall  to  bewailing 
the  dirth  of  fish  in  the  bay. 

"No  haddock,  no  po'gies,  no  nuttin' — " 

"No  po'gies?"  Allie  would  ask  in  vast  amazement. 

"Nope.  Don'  beelieve  dey  come  back  no  more 
thees  year.  Fleet  stay  in  sout'  all  a  time." 

But  there  came  an  evening  in  late  September 
when  he  could  not  hide  his  uneasiness.  I  saw  it 
the  moment  he  came  into  the  house. 

"Dey  comeen'  nort',"  he  blurted  out,  popping  his 

fingers  dismally. 

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STORM 

I  did  not  need  to  ask  who  the  "dey"  might  be. 
I  did  not  wait  for  supper,  but  went  immediately 
to  the  street  of  the  three  angles.  I  passed  a  crowd 
of  men  talking  violently,  one  of  them  with  his 
fists  shaking  in  the  air.  They  turned  and  followed 
me  with  their  eyes  as  I  went  along.  Another  knot 
was  gathered  around  Miah  Bomar,  who  sat  hunched 
in  a  wheel-chair.  They  too  watched  me.  The  news 
was  about. 

I  found  Mr.  Snow  on  the  porch,  rocking,  as 
always.  Even  before  he  spoke  I  marked  the  in 
definable  change  that  had  come  over  him,  suffusing 
the  fragile  shell  of  his  being  with  an  echo  of  the 
old  authority.  The  news  had  come  here  too. 

"Go  away,  ginny,"  he  quavered,  scowling  and 
tapping  his  stick  ferociously  on  the  boards.  "Go 
on  away,  ginny.  Allie  ain't  here." 

"Mr.  Snow,"  I  said,  "you're  lying  to  me.  Don't 
do  it  any  more."  I  opened  the  gate  and  went  into 
the  hallway,  where  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white 
frock.  She  lifted  her  face  to  be  kissed,  but  I  would 
wait.  I  took  her  hand  and  led  her  into  the  kitchen, 
to  be  away  from  the  porch. 

"Do  you  know?"  I  asked. 

"Yes." 

"We'll  be  married  to-night  and  go  away,"  I  said. 

"No,  Joe;    it  will  be  all  right — now.     See — 
She  led  me  to  the  stove  and  poked  her  fingers 
among  the  ashes  of  a  paper. 

"I  had  a  letter— from  him." 

Then,  seeing  the  look  on  my  face,  she  smiled  and 
held  my  hands  very  tightly. 

"Joe,  it's  all  right.    I  asked  father  to  write  him 
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STORM 

not  to  come  to  this  house,  and  he  did — father  wrote 
him." 

"Did  you?"  I  had  wheeled  and  caught  sight  of 
the  old  man  peering  in  at  the  door,  where  he  had 
come  noiselessly,  like  a  withered  mouse.  I  put 
the  question  again,  advancing,  with  a  finger  of 
accusation  pointed  at  him.  Ah,  he  was  cunning. 

"I've  forgotten,"  he  mumbled,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  head  of  his  stick,  which  he  clawed.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  me;  he  was  only  playing  that  he  was. 
The  evening  sun,  unslanting  through  a  western 
window,  struck  on  the  opposite  wall,  from  whence 
it  streamed  back  and  made  a  ghostly  pallor  in  the 
hallway.  Perhaps  it  was  the  effect  of  this  outlandish 
illumination,  or  partly  that,  which  took  the  old, 
rickety,  grinning,  and  mumbling  man  out  of  the 
familiar  world  and  made  him  suddenly  unassailable, 
monstrous,  and  sinister.  It  seemed  to  me  at  that 
moment  that  there  was  no  power  on  earth,  physical 
or  moral,  to  move  this  inertia  of  his. 

"He  won't  come  here?"  I  said,  weakly. 

"I  don*  know — don'  know.  What's  an  old  man 
like  me  know?"  His  blue  lids  were  still  hanging 
over  his  eyes,  but  I  had  a  feeling  of  the  eyes  some 
how  seeing  me  all  the  time — bright  and  malignant. 

"But,  Mr.  Snow — "  I  protested,  more  than  ever 
shaken. 

"Reckon  he  c'n  come  here  if  he  wants.  I  can't 
stop  him,  c'n  I?  I'm  an  old  man,  ain't  I?" 

I  turned  hopelessly  to  Allie  and  found  her  as 
shaken  as  I.  She  was  pale;  the  corners  of  her  lips 
drooped  as  though  with  fatigue.  Then  I  saw  that 

she  was  staring  into  the  hallway,  beyond  her  father. 

212 


STORM 

Some  one  was  stirring  there;  I  heard  a  movement  of 
feet,  myself.  So  did  the  old  man. 

It  was  Agnes.  She  must  have  been  standing 
there  for  some  minutes  before  she  moved  forward 
into  the  half -glow  of  the  refracted  sun.  Mr.  Snow 
half  turned  to  face  her  and  appeared  to  collapse 
against  the  wall.  Then  something  occurred  which 
I  could  not  understand. 

Agnes  reached  out  and  grasped  his  right  shoulder. 
He  shrank  still  more  desperately  close  against  the 
wall,  his  eyes  fascinated,  his  face  contorted  with 
fear. 

"Your  man  Crimson  is  not  going  to  see  Allie,  is 
he?"  she  asked. 

"No,  no,  no!  I'll  give  ye  an  oath — I'll  say  any- 
thin'  ye  want.  I'm  old — " 

But  she  would  not  let  him  go.  She  pinched  his 
shoulder  so  that  he  whimpered,  bent  her  face  close 
to  his,  and  shook  her  fingers  before  his  eyes  as 
though  she  were  dealing  with  a  delinquent  child. 

"  Allie  must  not  see  Crimson.  Allie  must  not  see 
Crimson."  She  bored  it  in  with  repetitions.  "You 
understand?  She  must  not  see  him — because  she 
is  too  tired,  too  worn  out  and  weak.  Do  you  think 
I  don't  know  what  has  been  going  on  in  this  house?" 

"No — no;  prob'ly  ye  do — yes — yes.  I'm  an  old, 
feeble  man — " 

"When  the  fleet  comes,  Allie  will  come  to  my 
house." 

"Yes — yes — yes.     Sure — come  t'  your  house — " 

Agnes  released  his  pointed  shoulder,  and  he  col 
lapsed  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  of  the  hallway,  a 
pitiful  spectacle.  But  I  had  no  time  for  pity,  I  was 

213 


STORM 

so  taken  up  with  wonder  at  this  abrupt  transfigura 
tion  of  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl.  Wherever 
had  she  come  by  this  smooth  ferocity,  this  poise, 
this  headship  of  affairs,  this  inscrutable  domination 
over  the  old  man,  who  but  a  moment  before  had 
himself  been  inscrutably  dominant?  I  think  I  al 
ready  began  to  comprehend  the  reason  for  it 
somewhere  in  the  back  of  my  brain,  for  when,  on 
that  later  night,  Dedos  stood  over  me  with  his  livid 
face  and  clenched  hands  and  hard  breathing,  I 
could  blurt  it  out  quickly  enough.  But  the  idea 
had  taken  no  form  yet,  and  so  I  marveled  to  see 
Agnes  standing  there  over  the  fallen  man,  calm  and 
hard,  as  though  she  had  never  had  an  emotion  in 
her  life.  Her  eyes  were  on  Allie  now,  holding  her 
off  from  her  father. 

"You  will  come  straight  to  me,  Allie,  if  the  fleet 
comes  in.  Promise  me  that  you  will." 

But  Allie,  rebellious,  ran  to  her  father  and  petted 
him  and  tried  to  lift  him  up.  "I  can't  leave  him 
here  all  alone,"  she  cried.  "No,  no,  I  couldn't — " 

"Then  you  will  both  come."  There  was  some 
thing  flinty  and  relentless  about  Agnes  that  as 
tounded  me.  I  heard  the  old  man's  voice,  muffled, 
chattering:  "Yes,  yes — we'll  both  come,  girl — 
honest  to  God  we  will." 

Then  it  was  that  I  realized  that  I  was  standing 
like  a  graven  image  when  things  were  to  be  done, 
and  I  ran  forward  and  picked  up  the  trembling 
wreck  in  the  hall  and  set  him  in  a  chair. 

And  after  all,  this  flurry  and  disruption  had  been 
to  no  purpose.  The  day  following,  Dedos  resumed 
his  cloak  of  nonchalance. 

214 


STORM 

# 

"Dey  start  sout'  again,"  he  mused,  scaring  little 
Aggie  nearly  to  death  with  a  broadside  of  fingers 
under  her  nose. 

There  came  a  time  when  only  a  week  stood  be 
tween  me  and  the  day.  One  trip  to  the  Channel, 
a  day  in  the  city — home.  I  went  away  on  the 
second  of  October,  and  Allie  stood  on  the  end  of 
a  wharf  watching  the  dories  drawing  away  over 
the  water.  Dedos  sat  beside  me  on  the  thwart.  I 
suddenly  plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"Dedos.  Can't  you  take  the  vessel  this  one 
trip — say?" 

"Steedy,  boy."  He  whacked  me  on  the  back 
with  a  jovial  grunt.  "I  was  feedgity  w'en  I  was 
young  lek  you.  She  been  all  righ' — dey  wee  sout', 
boy." 

"Of  course  she'll  be  all  right — what  do  you 
think — "  But  for  all  that,  I  could  not  bear  to  see 
that  fleck  of  white  that  was  Allie  Snow  growing 
smaller  and  smaller  as  we  came  out  to  the  Arbitrator. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  pleaded  with  myself. 

And  yet  I  wanted  to  be  back  on  the  wharf  with 
her.  It  seemed  to  me  she  was  calling.  But  of 
course  she  was  not.  I  was  glad  Man'el  was  not 
there  to  see  my  fidgeting.  I  could  not  have  stood 
his  harrying.  He  had  gone  with  the  Rose  Dorothy, 
at  his  own  wish  and  mine. 

The  anchor  came  up  creaking,  the  halliards  rat 
tled  in  the  blocks,  the  canvas  filled,  and  we  moved 
about  the  Point,  which  came  out  like  a  yellow 
tongue  to  devour  the  straggling  town. 


xvn 

A   NIGHT-RUNNING 

MUCH  more  than  any  landsman  knows,  the 
sea  has  its  own  streets  and  by-paths  and 
places,  marked  by  lines  and  boundaries  as  surely 
as  those  of  an  inland  country.  It  is  hard  for  one 
person  to  tell  another  how  the  man  whose  affairs 
carry  him  continually  over  them  is  able,  even  on  a 
thick  night,  to  read  the  shadowy  sign-posts  of  these 
thoroughfares.  Perhaps  it  is  something  akin  to 
the  sense  of  a  blind  man  who  may  walk  about  his 
own  neighborhood  in  security,  guided  by  the  "feel" 
of  things  underfoot. 

The  Race  will  wake  me  from  the  soundest  sleep. 
That  is  the  sort  of  sign-posts  we  have  at  sea.  I 
have  known  myself,  on  a  quiet  day,  with  air  and 
tide  setting  in  the  same  quarter,  to  fetch  up  staring 
in  my  bunk  the  moment  the  keel  beneath  me  entered 
the  stream  of  the  Race. 

So  it  was  on  this  seventh  day  of  October.  We 
put  the  fish  out  on  a  good  market  that  morning  in 
the  city  and  cleared  from  the  dock  as  the  Atlantic 
Avenue  whistles  were  blowing  for  noon.  At  half 
past  two  I  watched  Minot's  Light  go  clear  on  the 
starboard  hand,  passed  the  word  to  Dedos,  and 
went  below  for  my  first  easy  sleep  in  over  a  hundred 
hours. 

216 


STORM 

Next  I  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  my  bunk, 
actually  trembling  a  little  with  the  shock  of  con 
sciousness — and  all  over  nothing  to  which  I  could 
give  a  name.  We  had  come  into  the  Race,  just 
as  I  had  come  upward  of  a  hundred  times,  always 
with  the  same  inexplicable  business. 

I  remember  this  particular  time  so  vividly 
because  the  man  at  the  wheel  was  saying  something. 
I  do  not  recall  now  who  that  man  was,  but  his 
words,  coming  down  to  me  through  the  open  com 
panion,  have  remained  with  me  always  in  the  light 
of  a  brief  and  significant  prologue,  read  by  one  of 
the  actors  before  the  curtain  rises  on  some  scene 
of  action  and  tumult  in  a  theater. 

The  scene  ushered  in,  as  it  were,  by  that  remark 
of  the  helmsman's  has  come  to  be  one  of  the  epics 
of  Old  Harbor  in  these  years.  Only  last  summer, 
when  I  was  back  in  the  town,  I  was  amazed  at  the 
spectacle  of  a  boy  of  seven  stalking  majestically 
up  one  of  the  hill  streets  at  the  head  of  a  small 
company,  to  whom  he  announced: 

"Cap'n  Jig  went  up  th'  Glen, 
Ma'chin'  with  a  hundred  men — " 

and  other  matters  which  surprised  me  immensely. 

Enough  that  in  its  character  of  epic  the  hero  had 

lost  his  name  and  a  short  score  of  good  fellows  had 

multiplied  with  startling  vigor. 

What  the  helmsman  was  saying  was  this: 
"Eet's  late  for  'em  up  dees  way.     I  never  see 

dat  smoke  round  here  dees  time  a  year  beef  ore." 
I  sat  there  on  the  blankets  for  a  long  time, 

staring  at  the  tapestry  of  oil-clothes  misting  above 

217 


STORM 

the  cabin  stove.  It  seemed  as  though  a  weight 
which  had  been  hanging  over  me  had  lowered  gently, 
smothering  and  pressing  me  down.  I  knew  what 
the  man  at  the  wheel  meant. 

After  a  while  I  got  up  and  wandered  about  the 
confined  space  of  the^abin.  I  rearranged  a  bundle 
of  charts  with  painful  care.  I  turned  up  the  wick 
of  the  binnacle  lamp,  turned  it  down,  turned  it  up 
once  more  and  smoothed  its  edge  with  a  burnt 
match.  I  dusted  the  glass  over  the  picture  of  the 
Virgin.  I  did  anything  that  came  under  my  hand 
to  fill  up  the  minutes — to  hold  off  the  time  when  I 
must  come  up  on  deck  and  look  at  things. 

But  time  could  not  be  held  off  forever.  I  became 
aware  that  the  deck  of  the  cabin  shifted,  then  a 
bang  and  a  shock  above-decks  told  me  that  the 
vessel  had  worn  about  to  stand  over  the  Point. 
I  clambered  up  the  companion-ladder  very  slowly. 

Then  I  saw  the  porgie  -  steamers  hiving  about 
the  end  of  Long  Wharf  like  a  swarm  of  evil  and 
smudgy  wasps.  I  stood  by  the  wheel  and  counted 
them,  still  to  be  doing  something  with  my  mind. 
There  were  twenty-four  steamers,  as  nearly  as  I 
could  make  out;  that  would  mean  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  half  a  thousand  men  ashore.  I  could  picture 
the  narrow  corridor  of  the  front  street  filled  with 
their  brawling,  and  a  knot  of  them  swaggering  up 
the  street  of  the  three  angles — it  was  this  last  that 
made  me  so  bitter. 

A  half -sun  stood  over  Pink  Hill.  The  black 
silhouette  of  the  ridge  gnawed  it  away  till  only  a 
fine  blade  of  crimson  hung  there.  When  it  did  slip 
away  it  was  as  though  the  act  of  its  going  had  fired 

218 


STORM 

some  hidden  train,  and  over  the  face  of  the  harbor 
a  vast  red  and  silent  torrent  flared  upward  toward 
the  zenith. 

"Gawd,  ain't  it  purty,  though?" 

One  of  the  men  behind  me  said  it.  That  is  the 
first  and  last  time  I  can  remember  ever  having 
heard  a  fisherman  moved  to  words  by  an  esthetic 
aspect  of  nature. 

I  suppose  that  it  was  very  beautiful.  To  me,  that 
tremendous  column  of  the  steamers'  smoke,  turned 
back  to  the  parent  flame  by  the  dying  of  the  sun, 
appeared  an  ugly  and  monstrous  thing.  It  filled 
me  with  a  sense  of  portent  to  watch  the  shadow  of 
the  earth  crawling  up  that  tower  of  living  vapor, 
killing  as  it  crawled.  When  we  let  our  anchor  go 
the  dusk  was  already  crowding  down  over  the 
water,  and  far  up  in  the  sky  the  apex  of  the  vapor 
still  burned,  like  an  intruding  planet  hovering  over 
the  earth. 

It  was  a  wonderfully  quiet  night.  We  came  in  at 
low  water,  and  the  sound  of  a  fish-cart's  axle 
screaming  over  the  flats  a  mile  down-shore  came 
to  our  ears  as  loud  and  important  as  our  own  dory's 
bow  grounding  on  the  pebbles.  The  men  got  over 
the  side  with  a  volley  of  watery  explosions;  they 
grasped  the  gunwales  in  their  strong  hands,  and 
the  lightened  boat  ran  far  up  over  the  last  threads 
of  the  riffles.  Then  I  got  out  and  stood  on  the  damp 
sand;  stood  there  because  I  could  think  of  nothing 
else  to  do.  Ever  since  that  word  of  the  helmsman's 
had  come  down  through  the  companion  all  my 
powers  of  thought  and  action  seemed  to  have  been 
clogged  by  some  inexplicable  bond. 
15  *19 


STORM 

Dedos  shouldered  his  ditty-bag  and  drew  up 
beside  me.  Often  and  often  since  I  have  heard 
him  going  on  to  the  crowd  in  the  back  room  at 
Silva's  about  the  fear  he  had  of  me  that  night. 
"I  tell  you  he  looked  's  beeg's  a  horse,"  he  would 
say.  I  must  have  looked  portentous,  glowering 
there  in  the  half-light. 

"Wat  y'  goeen'  do?"  he  asked  me,  making  a 
pretense  of  securing  the  strings  of  his  bag.  I  looked 
about  me  and  understood  that  all  the  crew  were 
observing  me  covertly.  They  wanted  to  know 
what  I  was  going  to  do;  it  came  to  me  that  they 
had  been  wondering  over  that  question  since  the 
lookout  first  raised  the  Cape  that  afternoon,  with 
the  pall  of  soft  coal  standing  up  above  its  distant 
reach. 

"I'm  going  home  and  eat,"  I  answered. 

Side  by  side  we  tramped  across  the  glimmering 
flats  and  up  the  beach  and  along  the  front  street, 
deserted  at  the  supper-hour  this  far  to  the  west 
ward.  At  the  foot  of  Denby's  Lane  Dedos  looked 
up  at  me  again  with  an  expression  of  concern  in 
his  wide  face  that  would  have  seemed  comical  to 
me  in  any  other  mood. 

"Wat  y'  goeen'  do?"  he  repeated  his  question. 

"I'm  going  to  eat  supper." 

He  padded  along  beside  me  for  a  moment  in 
awkward  silence;  then  he  stopped,  as  though  with 
a  sudden  decision,  and  waited  for  the  straggling 
men  to  come  up  with  him.  Over  my  shoulder  I 
perceived  them  gathering  about  him  in  a  compact, 
dark  knot,  from  which  his  arm  emerged,  gesturing 
toward  the  center  of  the  town.  When  he  had  come 

220 


STORM 

up  with  me  again  he  whistled  explosively,  popped 
his  fingers,  and  made  a  great  fuss  of  being  at  his 
ease.  The  men  behind  us  began  to  drop  away  at 
their  home  corners,  where,  in  the  main,  their  women 
were  waiting  for  them. 

The  children  were  looking  out  for  us  at  the  corner 
of  Shank  Painter,  Aggie  hopping  up  and  down  with 
little  screams,  Joe  holding  the  baby  as  high  as  he 
could  manage.  It  was  a  custom  on  such  occasions 
for  Aggie  and  the  baby  to  ride  home  aloft  on  Dedos's 
shoulders,  while  Joe  towed  out  at  the  end  of  my 
arm.  This  night  the  boy  looked  up  at  me  and  then 
retired  to  the  further  side  of  his  father. 

Agnes  met  us  at  the  door,  kissed  her  husband, 
her  hands  covered  with  flour  sticking  out  rigidly 
over  his  shoulders,  and  tried  to  smile  at  me,  but 
could  not. 

"When  did  they  come?"  I  could  not  waste  time 
with  diplomacy. 

"Last  night." 

"Has  she  been  here  to-day?" 

"Joe— Joe— " 

"Tell  me,  Agnes." 

"No." 

During  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening  meal  she 
made  a  brave  show  of  gaiety,  ignoring  the  fact  that 
I  scarcely  touched  my  food,  and  rippling  that  queer 
signal  of  her  mirth  which  I  have  come  to  call  her 
"amateur  laugh,"  for  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl 
never  learned  to  laugh,  really. 

But  before  supper  was  done  with  she  had  to 
turn  silent  and  preoccupied  under  the  general  chill. 

Only  Aggie  and  the  baby  seemed  to  be  untouched, 

221 


STORM 

and  went  on  with  their  playing  and  babbling  as 
usual,  till  their  mother  cried  to  them  sharply : 

"Be— be— be  quiet." 

Heaven  knows  how  she  ever  happened  upon  that 
impossible  combination  of  words.  It  was  a  sort  of 
unwitting  treachery — an  innocent  mine  to  shatter 
time  and  space  and  set  me  back  once  more,  a  child, 
in  my  father's  house,  miles  down-shore.  For  that 
little  word,  repeated  thrice  in  crescendo,  with  the 
longer  word  to  follow,  was  an  old  formula  of  my 
mother's,  to  use  when  Man'el  and  I  had  worn  her 
near  to  the  breaking-point. 

Coming  now,  so  perfect  in  its  very  inflexion  and 
so  utterly  without  warning,  it  seemed  to  have 
blasted  open  some  long-unused  cell  of  my  brain. 
My  mother  moved  about  the  kitchen,  clattering  the 
supper  things  and  singing  an  Island  song  in  her 
boyish  alto.  My  father's  feet  scuffed  the  boards 
of  the  wharf  outside  in  the  dark,  where  the  tide 
whispered  along  the  margins  of  the  Creek.  I  had 
no  care — nothing  in  all  the  world  to  turn  away  from. 
Little  Man'el  charged  through  from  the  front  room, 
astride  of  a  broom-stick,  crying  that  it  was  a  black 
horse,  and  I  caught  its  flying  tail  and  screamed 
back  at  him  that  it  wasn't  a  horse  at  all,  but  only 
a  dirty  stick.  A  squabble  grew  out  of  that;  and 
then  my  mother's,  "Be — be — be  quiet." 

It  all  rushed  about  me  in  the  fraction  of  an 
instant,  but  for  that  breath  it  was  very  real.  All 
the  things  that  life  had  brought  me  were  wiped 
away  without  a  quiver  of  regret.  I  had  a  feeling 
of  momentary  and  miraculous  rest.  Then  the 
things  this  night  held  for  me  crowded  about  that 

222 


STORM 

fragile  moment  and  smothered  it  with  their  bitter 
actuality. 

I  got  up  from  the  table,  went  over  and  took  up 
my  hat  and  coat  which  I  had  flung  on  a  chair.  I 
felt  that  I  must  get  out  of  that  room — anywhere,  I 
said  to  myself,  although  in  the  back  of  my  mind  I 
knew  well  where  I  should  go  before  I  was  through 
with  it.  Dedos  turned  in  his  chair. 

"Wat  y'  goeen'  do?"  He  put  the  same  form  of 
question  for  the  third  time  that  evening. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

"I  go  weeth  you." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  screaming  of 
wood  on  wood,  cast  a  meaning  glance  at  Agnes, 
and  took  up  his  coat. 

"I  guess  I  won't  go  out  anyway,"  I  lied. 

I  moved  into  my  room  and  closed  the  door,  but 
my  coat  was  still  over  my  arm  and  my  hat  in  my 
hand.  I  had  not  deceived  either  of  them  in  the 
least,  as  I  was  to  know  later. 

After  a  few  minutes  I  went  out  by  the  other  door, 
slipped  through  the  kitchen,  and  gained  the  back 
street  by  way  of  a  neighbor's  yard  and  a  break  in 
the  shoring-wall.  But  I  had  not  gotten  away 
altogether  alone.  In  the  garden  I  had  been  almost 
taken  off  my  feet  by  a  weight  hurled  at  the  back 
of  my  knees,  and  there  was  Tim  bidding  me  wel 
come  home  in  a  great  destruction  of  Agnes's  melon- 
vines,  fairly  beside  himself  to  find  me  come  while 
he  was  away  at  his  foraging.  I  have  often  specu 
lated  as  to  what  would  have  come  of  that  night 
had  the  dog  been  ten  minutes  later  in  coming  to 
the  house. 


STORM 

It  is  right  where  I  came  out,  at  the  upper  end  of 
Shank  Painter,  that  the  back  street  runs  along  the 
shoulder  of  Pink  Hill,  so  that  one  may  look  down 
from  this  point  over  all  the  town  to  the  eastward. 
It  lay  below  me  that  night,  unfamiliar  and  mysteri 
ous  and  flat,  robbed  of  all  its  features  by  the  blanket 
of  the  dark,  and  only  defined  here  and  there,  like 
a  figure  in  navigation,  by  the  dots  of  occasional 
window  lights.  It  was  so  quiet  that  I  could  hear 
a  sow  grunting  in  Crazy  Tony's  sty,  away  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill.  Tim  heard  it,  too,  and  barked. 

There  are  at  least  a  score  of  people  in  Old  Harbor 
now  who  heard  that  barking  of  Tim's,  and  will 
give  circumstantial  proof  of  it  by  telling  just  what 
they  were  doing  at  the  time.  It  is  curious  that  they 
are  all  so  faithful  in  this  point  and  are  still  willing 
to  give  Sammy  North  credit  for  having  seen  me 
coming  down  the  front  street  at  almost  that  iden 
tical  moment.  In  reality,  of  course,  I  never  set  foot 
in  the  front  street  for  an  hour  after  that,  and  then 
it  was  from  the  other  end  of  town  that  I  entered  it. 

Tim  would  have  stood  there  and  barked  at  Crazy 
Tony's  sow  for  half  the  night  had  I  not  kicked  him 
gently  in  the  ribs  and  told  him  to  be  quiet.  For 
there  was  another  sound  abroad  that  I  wanted  to 
hear.  Somewhere  far  away  down-street  a  fight  was 
going  on.  It  came  up  to  me  only  as  a  confused 
and  sinister  rumor,  troubling  the  night  air. 

I  wanted  to  turn  to  the  westward  and  walk 
away  through  the  soft  blind  ways  of  the  back 
country.  Agnes  had  said  that  Allie  was  worn  out. 
Well,  I  was  worn  out,  too.  I  was  utterly  and 
bitterly  exhausted  by  the  piling-up  of  things  I 

224 


STORM 

could  not  understand,  by  beating  my  hands  against 
impalpable  walls,  by  trying  to  think  and  trying  not 
to  think.  Just  then  I  was  a  skulker,  a  weakling. 
I  overwhelmed  myself  with  pity;  I  hoodwinked 
myself  with  a  gesture  of  nobility.  If  there  was  to 
be  a  choosing  that  night  for  Allie  Snow,  /  would 
not  be  about  to  throw  my  weight  one  way  or  the 
other.  I  understood  that  the  other  man  would  be 
there,  with  his  weight  in  the  balance.  Yes;  but 
then,  if  Allie's  love  meant  anything  in  the  world, 
she  would  come  to  me  no  matter  what  the  path 
that  led.  I  had  become  the  lowest  of  the  low — a 
fatalist,  bitter  and  self -pitying. 

Tim  wanted  to  go  to  the  westward  too.  He 
pointed  his  quivering  muzzle  up-street,  his  after- 
part  writhing  and  his  great  block  of  a  head  filled 
with  ecstatic  visions  of  the  monsters  there  would 
be  to  save  me  from  in  the  back  country  on  a  night 
like  this.  He  turned  an  appealing  eye  and  saw  me 
standing  divided  between  the  east  and  the  west. 
Then  he  growled  in  the  shallow  way  that  was  his 
challenge  to  romance  and  made  two  or  three  stiff- 
legged  bounds  away;  and  I  followed  him,  turning 
my  back  upon  the  town. 

Shank  Painter,  the  street,  gives  way  imper 
ceptibly  to  Shank  Painter,  the  road.  When  you 
have  passed  Joseph  Deal's  farm-house  you  are 
through  with  the  street,  and  a  moment  later  the 
scrub  flings  over  the  ridge  of  a  hummock  and  swal 
lows  the  thoroughfare. 

It  is  hard  to  remember  clearly  what  happened  to 
me  in  Shank  Painter  road.  I  have  a  recollection  of 
the  sand  terrible  about  my  feet,  of  stars  coming  and 

225 


STORM 

going  in  brief  flashes  across  breaks  in  the  trees, 
of  a  gray  blur,  which  was  the  spot  on  Tim's  neck, 
moving  here  and  there  in  front  of  me.  My  dumb 
ness  had  spoiled  his  night:  though  he  poked  a 
nose  into  every  bush,  with  his  invisible  stump  of 
tail  imploring  me,  there  was  never  a  fabulous 
monster  to  lie  in  wait. 

After  I  left  Shank  Painter  I  must  have  covered 
many  miles.  Once  I  was  near  the  town  again,  and 
the  murmur  of  its  life  came  to  me  over  a  draw  in 
the  dunes.  My  feet  caught  up  the  meshes  of  a 
weir-net,  fresh  tarred  and  drying  on  the  ground; 
from  that  I  knew  I  was  in  Cold  Storage  fields,  and 
doubled  into  the  north  again. 

I  remember  it  as  a  long  time  afterward  that  I 
found  myself  in  Paul  Dyer's  road.  Whether  I 
came  there  by  the  cut  across  Duncan's  field  or 
through  the  gravel-pits  I  cannot  say,  for  the  sudden 
knowledge  of  my  whereabouts  came  to  me  out  of  a 
blank.  Then  I  hurried  along  to  the  music  of  sand 
thrown  out  on  dead  leaves,  over  the  First  Ridge, 
down  the  slope  of  the  little  pines,  and  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  red  amphitheater. 

Here  was  a  fine  place  to  come  for  a  man  who 
was  trying  to  run  away  from  himself  and  his 
thoughts  and  memories.  The  ghosts  of  so  many 
things  came  and  crowded  about  me — one  of  them 
was  the  ghost  of  a  day  in  spring  when  the  crouching 
woods  rocked  with  the  coming  of  life,  and  Allie 
and  I  stood  apart  looking  at  each  other  and  know 
ing  suddenly  that  she  was  a  woman  and  I  a  man. 

Then  I  knew  I  must  see  Allie  this  night,  whatever 
might  come  of  it. 


xvni 

I    ENTER    A    CERTAIN    HOUSE    WITHOUT    INVITATION 

IN  my  wandering  and  stumbling  about  the  back 
country  it  seemed  that  half  the  night  must 
have  worn  away  before  I  stood  in  the  hollow.  It 
could  not  have  taken  me  more  than  ten  minutes  to 
get  back  to  town,  now  that  I  went  with  intention. 
There  is  an  old  and  nearly  obliterated  trail  that 
leads  from  the  edge  of  Paul  Dyer's  fields  almost  in 
a  straight  line  to  the  back  street  behind  Cold  Stor 
age.  This  precarious  passage  I  took  at  a  half-run, 
making  nothing  of  the  plunge  and  scramble  through 
the  gravel-pits  or  the  cat-vine  that  tore  at  my  legs. 
I  was  breasting  the  hill  that  hangs  over  the  town 
when  the  distant  note  of  the  bell  in  Town  Hall 
striking  the  hour  came  up  to  me. 

I  counted  the  strokes,  and  when  it  came  to  nine 
and  rang  no  more  I  was  bewildered. 

"I  must  have  lost  count,"  I  said  to  myself.  "I 
must  have  lost  count."  I  repeated  it  over  and  over 
mechanically. 

Then  I  plunged  on  down  the  hill  with  more 
impetus  than  I  could  manage,  fetching  up  in  a 
great  row  of  cans  and  broken  bottles  at  the  back  of 
Gary  Betts's  chicken-house,  where  it  was  as  black 
as  a  pit.  I  could  hear  Tim  thrashing  around  in 

227 


STORM 

the  brush  above  and  whining  because  he  could  not 
get  to  me,  while  I  lay  there  in  I  know  not  what 
manner  of  rubbish,  gaining  back  a  little  of  my  lost 
breath.  When  I  did  move  off  in  the  dark  I  was 
pursued  by  old  Gary's  tremulous  threats  of  violence 
from  a  back  window.  He  has  never  known  there 
was  anything  more  than  a  marauding  dog  out  there 
that  night  and  so  missed  a  niche  in  the  temple  of 
fame.  In  the  front  street  I  met  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Silvado,  spare  hand  on  the  schooner  Belle  Jason. 
He  stopped  me  under  a  smoky  lamp  at  Bargo  Street. 

"They  raisin'  hell  up-street  t'-night,"  he  said. 

I  grunted  without  inflexion,  for  I  wanted  to  go 
on.  He  was  a  spare  man  with  gray  side-whiskers 
chopped  off  below  the  ears — the  kind  of  a  man  who 
gets  his  hand  into  your  coat  and  clings  there  at  the 
slightest  pretext  for  conversation.  He  started  to 
say  something  more,  but  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  first  word  and  stared  at  me  in  gathering 
wonder. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  clo'es?"  he  mar 
veled. 

I  looked  down  and  saw  for  the  first  time  that 
my  clothing  had  suffered  desperately  in  the  back 
country.  A  sharp  branch  had  gashed  the  length  of 
my  left  sleeve;  I  was  covered  with  pine  needles 
and  shreds  of  bark;  the  cat- vine  had  whipped  the 
bottoms  of  my  trousers  to  strings. 

"Where  you  been?"  Silvado  pressed  me.  I 
shook  his  hand  off  and  went  on  my  way.  I  can 
see  him  yet  standing  under  the  flare  of  the  kerosene- 
lamp,  his  right  hand  hanging  in  space  and  his 
brown  teeth  ajar  in  a  grimace  of  astonishment. 


STORM 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  passed  a  hundred  persons 
in  that  short  progress  up  the  front  street — black 
figures  growing  out  of  the  gloom  ahead  and  blotting 
away  in  the  darkness  behind.  Occasionally  one  of 
them  spoke  to  me,  but  the  word  always  caught  up 
with  me  after  the  speaker  had  vanished.  Only  one 
stopped  me.  That  was  Father  Ventura,  standing 
under  another  street-lamp  and  holding  up  his  hand. 
"You're  going  fast,  boy,"  he  said. 

"I'm  going  far,"  I  answered  him,  ill  at  ease,  but 
not  wishing  to  show  it. 

"How  far?"  he  asked.  His  steady  eyes  took  me 
in,  up  and  down,  without  surprise.  I  blurted  out 
my  answer  with  a  sudden  audacity  born  of  bit 
terness. 

"To  hell." 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  but  stepped  to 
my  side  and  looked  down  at  the  pair  of  shadows  we 
cast  on  the  yellow  floor  of  the  street.  I  stared  at 
them  too,  without  an  inkling  of  what  he  was  about. 
Then  he  moved  around  in  front  of  me,  and  my 
shadow  swallowed  his,  so  that  there  was  no  break 
in  the  silhouette.  Father  Ventura  was  old,  but  his 
shoulders  were  as  straight  now  as  they  had  been 
when  I  was  a  child  and  he  the  biggest  man  in  all 
the  Cape.  He  stood  away,  shaking  his  white  mane 
at  me. 

"To  hell?  Joe,  you're  a  big  man  to  be  going  to 
that  place  without  a  fight." 

"Fight?"  I  cried  at  him.  "And  where  does  your 
fighting  get  you?  Your  tramps  and  roustabouts 
fight — they're  fighting  all  the  time,  because  they're 
scared  to  do  anything  else.  I  tell  you  a  man  never 

229 


STORM 

uses  his  fists  till  he's  licked."  I  was  going  on 
with  rising  violence  when  the  absurdity  of  our  posi 
tions  suddenly  came  over  me. 

"Why — why — why,  look  here/'  I  stammered,  in 
a  desperate  search  for  words.  It  was  a  moment 
before  I  found  them,  and  then  I  exploded: 

"Why,  look  here;  you're  the  person  that  preaches 
about  peace  on  earth — and — and  kindness — and 
being  humble  and  all." 

"Yes,"  he  mused,  "and  I  preach  other  things." 

Then  he  changed  front  with  the  subtlety  of  a 
finished  actor.  His  eyes  narrowed  to  slits.  He 
thrust  his  head  toward  me. 

"And  how  about  the  girl — Allie?"  he  questioned 
me,  in  the  lowered  tones  of  perfect  discretion.  "Allie 
— do  you  think  Allie's  being — being — ah — straight? 
What?" 

"Wha — what — straight?"  I  seemed  to  hear  my 
self  saying  it  from  a  great  distance  in  a  queer,  high 
key.  I  was  not  putting  a  question;  I  had  under 
stood  his  meaning.  It  was  simply  a  habit  of  utter 
ance  reacting  idly  while  I  fought  off  the  debris  of 
a  world  which  had  been  broken.  For  an  instant  I 
was  helpless.  I  pitied  myself  because  I  was  in 
pain.  The  narrow  eyes  were  studying  me.  I  won 
dered  if  they  were  pitying  me  too. 

After  that  instant  came  the  instant  of  revulsion, 
when  the  fact  that  it  could  not  be  true  flared  up 
in  my  brain.  The  shock  of  it,  like  cold  water, 
made  me  blind  for  a  moment.  I  felt  the  tightening 
of  muscles  all  up  and  down  my  body.  Somehow 
I  realized  that  my  hands  were  curving  and  coming 
up  to  feel  for  the  throat  of  this  priest  who  had  done 

230 


STORM 

her  an  injury  that  no  years  could  altogether  mend, 
for  no  procession  of  years  could  ever  make  me 
forget  that  I  had  believed  him. 

But  his  eyes  were  too  steady.  Something  inside 
of  me  raised  the  abrupt  shout  that  this  was  an 
unthinkable  thing  I  was  doing.  Then  my  hands 
fell  limp,  and  I  turned  and  ran  away  up-street 
because  I  was  afraid  of  myself.  I  did  not  go  so 
quickly,  however,  but  I  carried  a  picture  of  Father 
Ventura  standing  in  the  ragged  spot  of  light,  his 
head  hanging  down  in  utter  despair  and  his  hands 
out  in  signal  of  failure.  Afterward  I  remembered 
the  words  he  said. 

"If  only  he  could — if  only  he  could  have  hit  me — 
once — " 

I  never  knew  a  better  man  than  that. 

Near  Onslaught's  Wharf  I  passed  through  the 
first  outpost  of  the  steamer-men.  They  were  loung 
ing  peaceably  in  a  black  string  along  the  fence.  I 
knew  them  by  the  broad  words  of  the  Provinces 
they  spoke  and  the  names  of  Arichat  and  Digby 
and  New  Glasgow  going  between  them.  I  heard 
them  saying  to  one  another  that  they  would  be 
seeing  their  homes  before  long  now,  because  it  was 
so  late  in  the  fall,  and  one  was  prophesying  an 
open  winter  in  Lunenburg. 

The  square  was  crowded  with  them,  and  bodies 
of  them  were  coming  and  going  on  Long  Wharf,  at 
whose  outer  end  the  cluster  of  steamers  blazed  like 
a  small  and  prosperous  city.  In  the  square  the 
broad  men,  with  their  chests  bare  to  the  night  air 
and  their  black,  shiny  caps  thrust  far  back  on 
their  heads,  tormented  the  checker-board  lights 

231 


STORM 

from  the  shops  with  their  continual  moving  up 
and  down.  They  appeared  to  be  restless  and  were 
uncommonly  silent,  like  men  who  were  waiting  for 
something.  Only  in  one  corner  was  there  any 
great  commotion — at  one  of  the  shore  corners  of 
the  wharf  men  in  a  ring  were  shouting  and  laughing 
and  slapping  shoulders  noisily. 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  me  who  sat  on  a  pile 
in  the  core  of  that  loud  ring.  I  could  see  his  flaming 
head  and  the  flaming  hair  on  his  chest  in  the  glow 
of  a  casual  match,  across  the  restless  floor  of  the 
caps.  I  could  hear  his  laughter  booming  above  the 
common  ruck  of  laughter.  Jock  Crimson  was 
tremendous  that  night — roaring,  abandoned  to  the 
seven  ecstatic  devils  of  vitality,  drunk  with  the 
blood  in  his  own  veins,  gorged  with  the  cold,  sweet 
air. 

His  roving  eye  picked  me  out  of  the  scattering 
at  the  corner  of  the  square.  He  lifted  his  hairy 
arms,  bare  almost  to  the  shoulders,  and  hailed  me, 
full-throated  and  jovial. 

"^4/ww/— cap'n!    How's — things?" 

Every  eye  in  the  square  had  turned  in  my  direc 
tion,  and  all  were  waiting  in  silence  to  hear  what  I 
should  say.  I  raised  my  arms,  exactly  as  Crimson 
had  done,  and  shouted  back  at  him: 

66  Finer 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  tumult.  The  men 
immediately  in  front  of  me  crowded  back  upon 
their  fellows,  opening  a  lane  along  the  street  side 
of  the  square.  Through  this  passage  I  shouldered 
my  way,  and  it  closed  up  behind  me.  I  heard  Tim 
barking  away  under  the  forest  of  legs,  but  I  had  no 

232 


STORM 

time  to  stop  for  him.  One  man  whispered  as  I 
passed:  "Thot's  the  monn  I  hov  been  tellin'  you 
of — thot's  him — "  and  I  knew  there  was  a  youngster 
fresh  from  the  Provinces  at  his  shoulder. 

By  contrast  with  the  crush  in  the  square,  coming 
again  between  the  walls  of  the  front  street  was  like 
bursting  into  a  deserted  hallway  from  the  whirl  and 
blaze  of  a  ball-room.  And  yet,  even  here  there  were 
three  times  as  many  people  as  one  would  see  in  the 
whole  thoroughfare  of  an  ordinary  noon.  They 
sprawled  on  every  door-step,  laughing  and  tossing 
jibes  and  epithets  back  and  forth  across  the  passage 
with  a  singular  and  unaccountable  good  humor. 
They  may  have  been  "raising  hell  up-street"  earlier 
in  the  evening,  but  now  they  were  waiting — like 
the  men  in  the  square.  None  of  them  commented 
on  my  passing,  and  none  spoke  to  me — only  turned 
and  watched  me. 

I  found  myself  in  the  oblong  of  light  falling  from 
the  windows  of  Danzio's  store.  Danzio  was  visible 
inside,  moving  about  his  trading  with  the  discreet, 
soft  tread  which  many  very  fat  people  possess.  His 
face  shone  with  the  faint  perspiration  which  never 
seemed  to  leave  it,  and  his  eyes,  made  very  small 
and  bead-like  by  the  encroaching  puffs  of  flesh 
around  them,  were  here  and  there  over  the  score 
or  more  of  steamer-men  who  were  buying  fruit  and 
candy.  His  boy  tended  the  back  part  of  the  room, 
where  he  could  be  seen  slipping  about  with  no  more 
noise  than  his  father. 

Danzio  came  softly  toward  the  front  of  the  shop 
to  take  the  money  from  a  man  who  had  filled  his 
pockets  with  apples.  Then  he  paused  in  the  open 

233 


STORM 

doorway  to  look  out  at  the  night  and  mop  his 
forever-moist  hands  on  a  sack.  After  a  moment  he 
noticed  me  standing  there.  Immediately  he  came 
padding  down  the  pair  of  steps,  edged  his  bulk 
apologetically  between  a  couple  of  loungers,  and 
spoke  to  me  in  an  unctuous  whisper. 

"They're  getting  better,  these  po'gie-men. 
They'll  be  a  good  thing  for  this  town  one  day. 
They  used  to  take  my  fruit  and  chase  me  out  of 
the  back  window  for  pay,  and  that  is  hard  for  a — 
a  man  of  my  size.  To-night  they  buy — they  pay 
their  money  quiet  and  go.  I'm  taking  in  a  pile 
of  money."  He  held  up  a  half-dollar  between  his 
oily  thumb  and  forefinger  as  a  symbol.  "They're 
a  good  thing  for  this  town,"  he  repeated  in  my 
ear,  and  left  me  for  the  interior  of  the  shop  with  an 
abrupt  and  soundless  rush. 

Danzio  was  a  man  of  reason,  and  Danzio  was 
making  money.  My  eyes  fell  upon  a  little  knot  of 
figures  just  within  an  alleyway  across  the  street. 
There  were  three  girls  in  the  company;  one  of 
them  I  recognized  by  the  embarrassed  giggle  with 
which  she  tried  so  hard  to  match  the  old,  old  pleas 
antries  of  the  others.  I  knew  her  well,  and  I  knew 
how  little  she  was  meant  to  be  there,  with  her  twelve 
years,  and  her  father  away  at  the  Georges — the 
captain  of  a  schooner,  too.  This  one  night  she 
would  be  safe,  because  for  some  unknown  reason 
the  fleet  was  waiting.  She  might  be  all  right  the 
next  time  they  came  ashore,  but  not  conceivably 
more  than  those  two  times. 

The  business  of  the  square  and  the  spectacle  of 
Danzio's  fat  complacency  had  had  me  near  forget- 

234 


STORM 

ting  the  errand  I  was  about.  The  spectacle  of 
little  Annie  Duarte  there  in  the  alleyway  brought 
it  back  to  me  with  a  poignant  and  bitter  shock.  I 
forgot  there  were  people  in  the  front  street  to  be 
amused  at  the  picture  of  Captain  Joseph  Manta 
lumbering  up  its  course;  I  must  see  Allie. 

In  all  that  impetuous  rush  from  the  hollow  it  had 
never  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  just  what  I  was 
to  do  when  I  did  see  Allie.  And  now  that  my  reso 
lution  had  come  to  its  second  wind,  I  had  no  other 
idea  but  that  of  physical  sight  of  her. 

I  doubled  into  the  street  of  the  three  angles, 
running  heavily,  and  but  vaguely  aware  of  the 
crowd  of  steamer-men  about  its  entrance,  although 
for  a  half-mile  back  I  had  not  noticed  a  one  of 
their  kind.  It  was  only  later  that  I  was  conscious 
that  one  or  two  of  them  grinned  at  me  and  spoke 
under  curved  hands  to  their  fellows. 

There  is  no  illumination  in  the  street  of  the  three 
angles  other  than  such  stray  gleams  as  may  struggle 
out  of  the  shuttered  windows  along  its  course,  and 
on  this  uneasy  night  even  these  sporadic  stragglers 
were  choked  out  and  the  low  barriers  of  the  passage 
blotted  away  in  the  general  gloom. 

Here  was  the  last  place  in  the  world,  however, 
where  I  needed  a  light  to  find  my  way.  I  drove 
along  without  easing  my  pace,  picked  up  the  gutter 
hollow  at  Small's  Angle  on  a  true  course,  bore 
to  the  left  with  my  shoe  clicking  securely  against 
Lem  Dow's  front  fence  till  it  came  to  an  end  and 
I  was  adrift  in  the  featureless  dark. 

A  few  yards  ahead  and  a  little  to  the  right  should 
be  the  second  turning,  from  which  I  could  see  the 

16  236 


STORM 

light  in  the  hall  window  of  the  apple-green  house. 
I  knew  there  was  no  shutter  on  that  window.  I 
could  have  strode  on  to  that  angle  and  turned  to 
the  breadth  of  a  hair  had  I  not  slackened  my  pace 
now  for  the  first  time  to  wonder  what  I  was  about. 
It  suddenly  came  over  me  that  I  had  been  making 
a  spectacle  of  myself,  with  wild  eyes  and  wrecked 
clothing,  running  through  the  length  of  Old  Harbor, 
and  that  I  was  upon  the  verge  of  being  a  greater 
fool  now  bursting  into  the  house  to  confront  that 
straight,  slim,  collected  girl,  with  no  words  but 
the  whine  of  a  cast-off  lover  and  no  excuse  but  a 
wild  impulse  upon  which  even  I  could  not  lay  hands. 

Well,  I  could  go  as  far  as  the  turn  and  look  at 
the  lighted  window;  at  least  I  could  do  that  with 
out  a  reason.  But  that  moment  of  hesitation  had 
broken  the  straight  drive,  and  now  I  had  to  grope 
my  way,  one  hand  out  and  one  foot  scraping  before 
me  like  a  blind  man's  cane.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  darkness  had  become  ponderable,  draining  in 
from  the  last  confines  of  space  to  crush  me  down. 
It  seemed  that  I  must  be  creeping  forward  in  this 
blind  progress  for  an  unconscionable  distance — -that 
I  must  have  passed  the  corner  goal  twice  over,  with 
no  light  opening  out  to  the  left.  I  began  to  dread 
something  I  could  not  give  a  form,  and  I  fought 
off  that  dread  by  whispering  over  and  over  to 
myself,  "A  man  goes  slower  than  he  thinks  in  the 
dark;  I'm  going  slower  than  I  seem  to  be." 

Then  my  outstretched  hand  recoiled  at  the  touch 
of  something  cold  and  hard. 

So  it  was  true,  after  all.  I  had  come  past  the 
corner,  clear,  crossed  the  bending  lane,  and  brought 

236 


STORM 

up  with  my  fingers  against  Tony  Silva's  stone  wall. 
The  apple-green  house  was  over  there  to  my  left, 
as  black  as  a  house  of  death. 

While  I  stood  there  in  the  dark  trying  to  think 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  a  crackling  of  twigs 
and  the  breathing  and  rustling  of  many  people 
in  the  passage  between  the  "fish  school"  and  the 
rear  of  Tony  Silva's  house.  I  remembered  now 
the  crowd  of  steamer-men  about  the  entrance  of  the 
street,  and  it  came  to  me  that  those  men  in  the 
passage  would  be  there  for  a  purpose.  But  just 
now  there  was  no  time  for  me  to  speculate  upon 
that  purpose.  Something  was  wrong  in  the  apple- 
green  house;  I  knew  this  as  surely  as  I  knew  that 
I  should  go  in  and  find  out  what  it  was. 

There  was  no  need  for  groping  now;  the  miracle 
of  instinct  had  come  back  to  me,  and  I  walked 
straight  through  the  cavern  of  the  gloom  till  my 
hand  fell  over  the  latch  of  the  gate.  Without  hesi 
tating  or  shrinking  at  the  clamor  its  opening  raised 
in  the  hanging  silence,  I  passed  into  the  yard  and 
along  the  southern  side  of  the  house  till  I  came 
to  the  rear.  There  was  never  a  cranny  of  light  to 
be  seen  on  the  three  walls  of  the  house  I  had 
traversed. 

I  stood  among  the  dank  garden  plants  and  did 
not  know  what  to  do.  There  came  the  discreet 
crying  of  the  gate  on  its  hinges  and  cautious  foot 
falls  on  the  tiny  plot  of  grass  at  the  street  side  of 
the  building.  It  began  to  dawn  on  me  that  these 
footfalls  might  have  something  to  do  with  me. 
But  still  I  could  not  manage  to  forget  that  I  was 
Joseph  Manta,  skipper  of  the  crack  vessel  of  the 

237 


STORM 

Old  Harbor  fleet,  and  a  man  of  weight  in  the  com 
munity.  Even  the  whisper  of  men  moving  in  the 
blind  alley  at  the  rear  of  Snow's  yard  and  the 
knowledge  that  I  was  surrounded  did  not  seem  a 
great  matter  to  me.  I  walked  deliberately  toward 
the  fourth  or  northern  side  of  the  house. 

And  on  the  fourth  side  I  found  what  I  was  looking 
for — a  thin  wafer  of  light  over  the  kitchen  door. 
I  moved  forward  without  hesitation  and  knocked 
gently.  In  the  succeeding  silence  I  was  sure  that 
I  heard  a  sound  inside,  a  stealthy  scraping  as  of  a 
chair-leg  on  boards.  After  that,  nothing.  A  foot 
crackled  on  the  gravel  path  behind  my  back. 

Without  waiting  longer  I  put  my  shoulder  to 
the  door.  It  opened  easily,  and  I  entered,  closing 
it  behind  me. 


XIX 


TEN  O'CLOCK 


A  SINGLE  candle,  guttering  on  the  table  and 
slowly  smothering  in  its  own  tallow,  illumi 
nated  the  room  with  a  sick  flare.  At  first  the  place 
seemed  empty,  and  I  knew  it  could  not  be,  for  I 
had  heard  that  sound  of  a  moving  chair. 

There  was  something  horrible  about  this  quiet 
and  vacancy  that  I  knew  was  not  a  vacancy.  Of 
a  sudden,  as  I  stood  there  gawking  about,  it  seemed 
as  though  a  hundred  boards  were  creaking  all 
through  the  empty  chambers  of  the  house.  The 
muffled  footfalls  on  the  gravel  outside  turned 
sinister  in  my  ears  and  set  the  cords  along  my  spine 
to  twanging.  For  a  moment  it  was  as  though  I 
heard  the  whole  of  Old  Harbor  full  of  footfalls, 
thousands  of  them  moving  in  the  lanes. 

There  came  a  creaking  from  the  corner.  I  saw  a 
piece  of  furniture  tremble. 

"Who's  there?"  I  demanded.  I  felt  a  shout  in 
my  throat,  but  only  half  a  voice  came  out  of  my 
mouth.  There  was  no  answer.  In  the  following 
pause  the  joints  of  the  building  seemed  to  scream, 
and  the  thousand  footfalls  came  toward  me.  The 
impenetrable  silence  of  that  corner  behind  the 
stove  had  made  an  old  woman  of  me  while  the 

239 


STORM 

clock  on  the  shelf  was  counting  twenty.  I  put 
my  question  again,  taking  a  step  forward. 

"Who's  there?" 

At  that  the  silence  was  broken,  if  by  nothing 
more  than  a  soft  scratching  along  the  floor.  There 
was  something  to  see  now — a  dirty  yellow  slipper 
and  a  fragment  of  thin  ankle  had  protruded  con 
vulsively  from  behind  the  stove.  It  was  not  till 
now  that  I  realized  how  frightened  I  had  been,  for 
the  revulsion  left  me  covered  with  sweat.  Mr. 
Snow  had  worn  that  slipper  for  years. 

"Snow,"  I  commanded,  this  time  aloud,  "come 
out  of  there!  Do  you  hear?  Come." 

The  slipper  withdrew  from  sight,  and  the  old 
man's  face,  haggard  and  twisted,  appeared  over 
the  back  of  a  chair.  The  spectacle  of  his  terror 
gave  me  a  queer  feeling  in  my  stomach. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you — where's  Allie?" 

"They — they're  all  around,"  he  quavered,  hold 
ing  up  his  narrow,  livid  hands. 

"Where's  Allie?"  I  repeated. 

"I'm  an  old  man,  Joe — Joe,  my  boy — I'm  an  old 
man.  They  wouldn't  harm  an  old  man,  would 
they?  You  wouldn't  let  'em  harm  me,  would  you, 
Joe?"  I  tried  to  pity  him  and  found  that  I  could 
not,  being  too  full  of  pity  for  myself.  And  it  might 
be  that  he  was  playing  with  me  again. 

"Tell  me  quick;   where's  Allie  gone?" 

"Oh — oh — it  wa'n't  then.  It  was  after  she'd 
gone.  They  come  in  at  the  door  there — three — 
five — oh,  a  dozen  of  'em.  'I  don'  know  where  she 
is,'  says  I.  'I  swear  by  anything  you  want,  I 
don'  know  where  she  is,'  I  says.  An'  then  one  of 

240 


STORM 

'em  knocked  over  the  chair  an'  I  fell  under  it. 
'You  will  tell  me  where  the  gal  is  or  I'll  kick  a  hole 
through  your  head,  old  Mr.  Slick,'  says  he,  swingin' 
his  boot  right  close  t'  my  head.  I  don'  know  what 
would  Ve  happened  in  the  end  if  Crimson  hadn't 
've  come  in  an'  shooed  'em  all  out  like  a  school  o' 
bait.  Then  he  give  me —  No,  no — he  never  give 
me  nothin' — honest  t'  God,  he  never  give  me  a 
thing — "  He  had  turned  frightened  again,  and 
crafty,  peering  at  me  suspiciously  as  he  screamed 
out  his  denials  and  convulsively  manipulating  some 
thing  behind  his  barrier. 

He  was  a  little  insane.  I  began  to  understand 
that  I  could  get  nothing  out  of  him,  but  I  put  my 
question  again  hopelessly.  He  gave  no  answer. 
He  was  looking  past  me  now.  The  twisting  of  his 
face  had  ceased,  leaving  a  horrible  grimace  frozen 
upon  his  features,  and  I  could  see  the  white  of  each 
eyeball  continuous  about  the  iris.  The  room  was 
unnaturally  brilliant  for  an  instant  with  the  death- 
flare  of  the  candle.  Then  the  blackness  en 
gulfed  us. 

This  had  happened  in  the  infinitesimal  passage 
of  time  while  I  was  whirling  to  look  behind  me 
and  the  dark  had  come  before  my  eyes  had  reached 
the  door.  Now  I  must  stand  there,  tense  and  half 
off  my  balance,  knowing  somehow  that  I  must  not 
move  or  make  a  sound.  A  single  star  burned  for 
a  moment  in  the  pit,  the  smoldering  wick  of  the 
candle,  and  then  it  too  was  gone.  I  was  afraid. 
There,  definitely,  in  the  lapse  of  minutes,  a  miracle 
had  been  done  in  me  by  the  piling  of  menace  upon 
menace;  a  rough  hand  had  stripped  me  of  that 

241 


STORM 

incubus  of  easy  humor,  and  I  stood  naked  now  in 
the  wreck  and  saw  the  monstrous  world  against 
me.  I  think  it  is  better  so. 

My  legs  wavered  beneath  me  like  a  baby's,  my 
fingers  were  going  back  and  forth  among  them 
selves,  and  I  could  feel  my  wrists  dripping  wet 
against  my  coat-sleeves.  I  stared  against  the  im 
penetrable  wall  of  the  dark  till  my  eyeballs  grew 
tight  and  dry.  My  chattering  spirit  cried  out  for 
something  that  I  might  see.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
if  I  could  only  once  see  the  thing  there  in  the  gloom 
— the  thing  that  had  come  without  a  sound  to 
set  a  grin  of  horror  on  the  old  man's  face — then  I 
could  throw  off  this  sickness  which  had  laid  hold 
upon  me.  I  was  in  an  agony  to  get  my  hands  on 
something  they  could  tear. 

And  now,  as  the  memory  of  light  faded  out  of 
my  eyes,  I  began  to  see.  I  had  thought  when  I  was 
outdoors  that  nothing  could  be  blacker,  but  there 
was  yet  some  seepage  of  light  abroad  in  the  world, 
for  now  I  could  make  out  a  vague  streak  of  gray 
before  me,  as  though  a  dirty  brush  had  been 
dragged  across  a  dead,  black  wall.  Some  one  had 
opened  the  door  a  little  ways — and  was  still  opening 
it,  for  the  blur  widened  as  I  watched.  And  some 
one  was  crouching  in  the  lower  half  of  the  rectangle, 
marring  the  symmetry  of  the  stroke. 

The  aperture  grew  wider  and  wider  by  imper 
ceptible  additions.  For  a  moment  the  pallor  of 
the  open  air  showed  at  the  side  of  the  intruder's 
bulk,  then  it  was  wiped  out  by  another  figure,  and 
I  was  conscious  of  still  others  crowding  behind. 
It  made  no  difference  to  me;  I  wanted  sound  and 

242 


STORM 

light  and  motion.  I  must  go.  I  was  beaten,  and  I 
must  fight. 

I  have  never  known  whether  I  shouted  or  not. 
I  remember  lifting  my  fists  level  with  my  shoulders 
and  running  at  that  streak  of  gray  with  all  the 
blind  strength  in  my  hulk.  And  then  I  remember 
that  I  received  a  cut  across  the  shins  from  a  chair 
I  had  forgotten,  and  the  spectacle  of  the  pale 
blur  wheeling  up  in  an  arc  out  of  sight,  the  stun 
ning  crash  of  my  weight  falling  flat  out  on  the 
floor,  and  the  hot  smother  of  men,  battering,  tear 
ing,  breathing  hard,  crushing  me  down  and  down, 
binding  the  muscles  of  my  back  and  shoulders  in 
knots  of  exquisite  pain.  It  may  have  been  finished 
in  a  second,  but  my  memory  is  of  a  long  night  of 
meaningless  struggle,  when  I  was  forever  afraid 
of  my  eyes  and  the  back  of  my  neck.  At  that 
moment  of  my  life  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  I 
was  a  coward. 

The  men  worked  without  words  and  with  a 
perfect  understanding  of  one  another  that  only 
explained  itself  later.  The  only  sound  above  the 
creaking  and  straining  and  tearing  of  the  attack 
came  from  the  invisible  corner  by  the  stove  where 
Snow  chattered  crazily  in  his  terror. 

In  the  end  my  elbows  were  drawn  up  behind 
my  back  and  bound  with  a  piece  of  line;  my  knees 
and  ankles  were  done  up  in  the  same  fashion;  and  I 
lay  there  like  a  bag  of  meal,  with  half  of  my  weight 
bearing  on  the  point  of  my  chin. 

My  brain  refused  to  work.  This  overturning  of 
my  world  had  set  me  adrift  without  a  chart  to 
tell  the  way.  I  was  dazed.  I  was  conscious  of 

243 


STORM 

whispering  above  me  and  the  tentative  withdrawal 
of  my  burden  of  assailants,  and  next  of  the  crackle 
of  a  match.  In  a  detached  sort  of  way  I  wondered 
what  they  were  going  to  do  with  me;  now  I  was 
helpless  I  had  no  further  fear  of  actual  pain. 

The  flare  of  the  match  came  nearer.  By  the 
glow  on  the  floor  I  saw  it  jerked  abruptly  and 
extinguished  by  the  violence  of  the  start.  In  the 
darkness  an  exclamation  sounded  close  to  my  ear. 
Something  about  it  set  my  skin  pricking  and  my 
brain  whirling  with  the  conviction  that  this  night 
had  gone  utterly  insane. 

Another  match  exploded.  Many  hands  clutched 
at  me  and  turned  me  over  to  face  the  glare,  blinking 
like  a  puppy.  But  blinking  as  I  was,  I  could  still 
make  out  the  broad  red  face  of  Dedos  staring  down 
at  mine  in  the  greatest  bewilderment.  Over  one 
shoulder  Gussie  James's  mouth  hung  open.  Over 
the  other  Joe  Bickers  peered  down  at  me  with 
little  popping  eyes.  The  crew  of  the  Arbitrator 
regarded  their  commander. 

I  have  often  thought  how  fine  a  memory  it 
would  have  made  for  me  if  I  could  have  thrown 
out  some  easy  phrase,  if  only  a  "Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  me?"  to  make  them  gape  still  wider  at 
my  unconcern.  But  in  place  of  that  I  must  wag 
my  lips  and  let  my  head  fall  back  on  the  floor, 
to  lie  there  swimming  in  a  fever  of  exhaustion. 

It  took  only  a  moment  to  have  me  free  and  sitting 
in  the  chair  that  had  been  my  most  fortunate 
undoing.  The  men  shuffled  about  with  subdued 
restlessness,  making  their  astonishment  with  ges 
turing  hands  and  brows,  and  whispering  in  knots, 

244 


STORM 

Dedos  hovered  ponderously  over  me  in  an  agony 
of  embarrassment.  The  situation  was  far  beyond 
the  diplomatic  powers  of  Dedos,  even  at  his  calmest 
moment.  Now  he  snapped  his  fingers  in  crescendo, 
like  a  huge  and  foolish  goose-fish  flapping  in  the 
bottom  of  a  dory,  and  blurted  out: 

"We  thought  you  was  heem" 

I  nodded  my  entire  understanding  rather  wanly. 

"W'ere's  her?"  he  questioned,  a  new  anxiety 
looming  on  his  brow.  I  waved  toward  the  corner. 

"Ask  her  father;  I  don't  know.    She's  gone." 

"Her  father — "  It  was  evident  that  he  had  not 
been  aware  of  the  old  man's  presence  before  this. 
And  now  I  saw  a  Dedos  I  had  never  known  before 
in  the  world.  My  Dedos  was  good-natured,  gro 
tesquely  anxious  to  be  liked — his  fits  of  anger 
blustering  and  short-lived.  But  here  was  a  Dedos 
angry  without  any  bluster,  his  face  working  very 
slowly  with  a  pale  and  malignant  fury. 

"Tell  me  w'ere  Allie  eez,  you — you — I  don' 
know  what  to  call  you.  Tell  me." 

My  eyes  went  from  Dedos  to  the  old  man  in  the 
corner.  Where  had  I  seen  such  a  horror  drawn 
on  a  human  face  before?  I  remembered  slowly. 
He  had  looked  so,  cringing  and  unbalanced,  that 
day  when  Agnes  stood  over  him  in  the  dim  hallway. 
It  was  sickening.  He  chattered. 

"Yes— yes— I'll  tell  you— I'll  tell  you  anything— 
only  don't  look  at  me — that  way — " 

"Speak  up — speak  up." 

"She's  gone  t'  the  dance — honest  t'  God  she  has. 
Don't  ye  b'lieve  me?" 

"Wat  you  got  there — huh?"     Dedos  advanced 

245 


STORM 

to  the  screen,  callous  to  the  man's  rising  hysteria, 
plunged  his  hand  out  of  sight  and  withdrew  it, 
after  a  moment's  groping  struggle. 

"So  that's  eet,  eh — I  fought  so.    Damn!'9 

He  began  plucking  to  pieces  the  object  in  his 
hands,  as  though  in  abstraction.  Then  I  saw  that 
it  was  money — fragments  of  green  bills  rained  from 
his  slowly  grinding  hands  like  flakes  of  fish  from 
a  shredder.  It  gave  me  a  feeling  of  coldness  and 
numbness  to  watch  him  and  understand. 

"Dat  red-headed give  you  this?"  Dedos 

uttered  the  words  slowly,  still  in  his  terrible  abstrac 
tion.  But  there  was  no  answer  to  his  question. 
The  frail  figure  before  him  had  collapsed  across  the 
fallen  chair,  and  nothing  but  the  twitching  of 
the  outstretched,  thin  fingers  gave  evidence  of 
life. 

I  got  hold  of  my  faculties  with  a  definite  effort. 

"He  ought  to  be  in  bed,"  I  heard  myself  saying 
in  an  absurdly  casual  tone.  "Carry  him  up-stairs, 
Dedos,  will  you?" 

"Weel  I  take  heem  up?"  Dedos  had  turned 
his  cold  malignity  now  upon  me.  "Weel  I  tetch 
heem  weeth  the  sole  o'  my  boot?  No.  I  be  damned 
een  hell  beef  ore."  He  came  nearer,  bent  down, 
pointed  fiercely  toward  the  corner,  and  cried  in  a 
whisper:  "Zhoe — d'you  know  what  dat  eez — who 
dat  eez?  Do  you?  Do  you?" 

As  I  have  said  before,  I  must  have  known,  some 
where  in  my  brain.  After  all,  had  I  not  once  stood 
before  a  dwelling  in  the  dunes  and  seen  a  certain 
man  frightened  in  the  dark? 

"He  is  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  —  he  is  your 

246 


STORM 

Agnes's  father."  I  said  it  without  any  particular 
wonder.  Yes,  I  must  have  known. 

Strangely  enough,  my  utterance  seemed  to  act 
as  a  sedative  to  Dedos's  tautened  nerves,  and  he 
turned  and  spoke  to  two  of  the  crew,  telling  them 
to  carry  old  Snow  up-stairs  and  leave  him  on  a 
bed.  When  they  had  gone  away  with  the  limp 
burden  swaying  between  them  I  got  to  my  feet, 
stretched  my  sore  limbs,  and  went  out  to  stand  on 
the  gravel  before  the  kitchen  door.  The  crew  came 
out  by  twos  and  threes  and  stood  about  me. 
Dedos  followed  and  slouched  in  the  doorway  with 
his  fat  elbows  propped  against  the  frame.  Already 
his  passion  had  drained  away,  leaving  him  sluggish. 

"She's  gone  to  the  dance,"  I  said  to  myself, 
aloud.  Dedos  took  it  up. 

"Dey  ain't  no  dance  to-night,"  he  said,  letting 
his  arms  drop  and  turning  a  heavy,  interrogative 
head  about  him.  It  was  little  Tony  Emanuel, 
indistinguishable  between  two  of  the  larger  men, 
who  answered  him. 

"The  po'gie- men's  got  one  up  to  St.  Peter's.  I 
heard  tell  of  it  in  the  front  street." 

Allie  Snow  had  not  been  to  a  town  dance  in  Old 
Harbor  in  the  last  four  years,  to  my  certain  knowl 
edge.  If  the  old  man  had  spoken  truth — and  the 
circumstances  made  me  believe  he  had — then  there 
was  indeed  something  wrong  here. 

Dedos,  sluggish  Dedos,  who  must  forever  be  the 
one  to  set  me  in  motion,  lowered  his  bulk  from  the 
door-step  with  a  sigh  and  grasped  my  elbow. 

"Tek  us  down  there,"  he  said.  "Ain't  dat  so?" 
he  demanded  of  the  men  who  crowded  about  us. 

247 


STORM 

There  was  a  rumble  of  general  assent.  One  or  two 
tugged  at  their  belts  significantly. 

"There  is  no  need  of  so  many — "  I  began, dodging 
the  issue  so  manifest  in  the  whole  attitude  of  the 
crowd.  "I'll  go  alone."  I  shifted  to  plain  speech. 

"You  want  to  fight,"  I  blurted  at  them.  "You 
can't  think  of  anything  better  than  to  fight.  There's 
no  call  for  a  fight — this  is  no  time — why — why,  men 
— why,  this  is  my  business  and  no  one  else's.  You 
can't  make  a — "  I  stopped,  appalled  at  the  length 
to  which  my  passion  had  carried  me.  If  I  had  gone 
on  to  say  that  one  could  never  force  a  love  by  the 
beating  of  fists,  then  I  would  not  have  been  Joseph 
Manta,  but  altogether  a  different  person. 

"This  is  my  business,"  I  finished,  curtly. 

"You  kin  go  alone  an'  we  follow  beehind,"  Dedos 
temporized.  "Mebby  dat's  a  way  t'  keep  us  quiet, 
mebby."  He  looked  up  at  my  shaking  head  in 
appeal;  then  he  changed  front  with  that  fire  that 
was  so  amazing  in  the  slow  man,  his  words  rumbling 
deep  in  his  vitals,  muffled,  like  subterranean  heav- 
ings. 

"No,  you  can'  keep  us  quiet  t'-night,  no  ways. 
Zhoe — Zhoe" — he  curved  emphatic  hands,  palms 
up,  before  my  face — "Zhoe,  dey's  near  a  t'ousan' 
men  hidin*  around  in  de  back  streets — listen,  you 
can  hear  Andy  White's  crew  now  over  een  Pick- 
ney's  alley.  Dey's  more  schooners  een  port  'n 
you  ever  see  thees  time  of  year.  You  deed'n'  tek 
note — no.  Dey's  waitin' — an'  dey  ain't  goeen'  wait 
long  time.  Dees  ain't  your  business,  Zhoe.  No,  no, 
eet's  our  business."  He  was  down  almost  double 
with  one  of  his  internal  throes, 

248 


STORM 

I  was  weary  of  it  and  angry  with  all  these  hands 
tugging  at  me  to-night. 

"What  do  I  care  if  you  fight?"  I  cried.  "Fight— 
and  to  hell  with  your  fighting."  And  I  turned 
away  from  the  apple-green  house  in  the  direction 
of  the  back  street. 

All  the  way  to  St.  Peter's  Hall  I  was  conscious 
of  that  dark  knot  of  men  following  me  along,  fifty 
yards  or  so  in  my  rear.  I  was  aware  of  something 
else.  From  the  mouth  of  every  black  lane  that  I 
passed  came  a  soft  rumor  of  life,  a  moving  of 
restless  boots  on  pebbles,  a  discreet  cough,  or  only 
an  added  blackness  to  the  night.  Once  or  twice, 
out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  I  was  sure  that  figures 
slipped  out  of  these  entrances  to  pass  a  word  with 
my  shadowy  convoy. 

A  dance  was  in  progress  in  St.  Peter's,  as  might 
be  known  from  the  creaks  of  light  under  the  window- 
shades  and  the  bursts  of  music,  intermittent  through 
the  swinging  door.  Some  men  were  squatting  on 
the  rail  of  the  porch  smoking,  and  the  entrance 
was  well  filled  with  their  fellows.  I  shouldered  my 
way  through  to  the  little  hole  in  the  wall,  aware 
of  the  staring  and  whispering  on  all  sides,  and  put 
down  a  piece  of  money  before  Jerry  Butler,  the 
old  man  who  sold  tickets  for  everything  in  Old 
Harbor.  He  examined  my  hand,  then  bent  down 
and  peered  through  the  aperture  at  me. 

"Wall,  I  snum  to  man!"  he  marveled,  and  had 
difficulty  with  my  change.  I  left  him  still  trying 
to  put  it  straight,  passed  through  the  inner  door,  and 
stood  up  with  my  back  to  the  orchestra. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  there.    My  mem- 

249 


STORM 

ory  of  that  lapse  of  time  is  mainly  of  a  succession 
of  faces  on  contorted  necks,  all  turned  toward  me, 
and  sweeping  past  endlessly.  A  great  many  of  the 
girls  I  knew:  nearly  all  of  the  men  were  strangers, 
every  one  with  the  mark  of  a  black  cap  on  his 
forehead.  I  noted  all  this  with  the  back  of  my 
brain:  I  was  watching  for  a  narrow,  oval  head, 
crowned  with  the  shining  hair  I  knew  so  well  with 
my  eyes  and  hands,  and  for  a  slender  form  that 
danced  beyond  any  music  the  Social  Orchestra 
would  ever  blow  and  scrape  and  twang. 

I  waited  and  waited,  and  Allie  did  not  come  past. 
Something  was  amiss  with  the  whole  dance — some 
thing  I  could  not  lay  hold  upon.  I  tried  to  think 
it  out,  lulling  the  fear  that  was  growing  in  me  by 
the  assurance  that  she  would  whirl  past  before 
long.  After  a  while  I  realized  that  a  certain  girl 
with  pink  ribbons  in  her  hair  had  crossed  my  vision 
a  dozen  times.  Allie  was  not  there. 

Once  through  the  idle  crowd  outside  I  leaned 
against  May's  stone  wall  and  tried  to  think.  My 
men  were  banked  in  post-office  street,  opening 
diagonally  across  from  me — Dedos  took  care  to  let 
me  know  it  by  sauntering  casually  out  of  the  shadow 
and  standing  for  a  long  while  under  the  street- 
lamp  opposite  the  hall.  But  I  had  no  wish  to  join 
them. 

Here  was  one  of  the  bitterest  moments  of  my 
life,  and  I  gnawed  at  it  as  a  sick  creature  will 
gnaw  at  bitter  herbs.  The  thing  that  cut  was  that 
I  did  not  know  where  Allie  Snow  was  or  what  she 
was  doing  or  thinking,  while  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  knew  and  snickered  about  it.  And  Allie  was 

250 


STORM 

a  part  of  me — as  actually  a  part  as  my  right  arm — 
yes,  or  the  brain  in  my  head. 

There  in  the  wan  flare  of  the  lamp  I  let  myself 
go,  and  raved  and  cursed  myself  in  the  silence  of 
my  heart.  I  wanted  to  throw  out  my  hands, 
beaten,  and  go  away  to  another  country  where  I 
might  never  again  see  any  one  or  anything  to  re 
mind  me  of  my  life.  I  was  always  one  to  want  to 
be  alone  when  hard-set. 

"It's  no  good,"  I  said  aloud;  "I'll  go  home  now, 
and  to-morrow  I'll  know  where  to  go.  The  girl  is 
not  for  me,  and  I  can't  make  her  be  if  it  isn't  in 
her  heart.  What — what — my  God,  what  is  it  that's 
come — "  I  broke  off  because  there  was  nothing 
to  ask,  and  because  a  shadow  had  come  between 
my  feet  and  the  light.  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
stand  another  knowing  stare  from  a  stranger  and 
hoisted  myself  on  the  palms  of  my  hands  to  go 
home. 

The  shadow  fluttered  on  my  sleeve.  I  looked 
up,  half  weary,  half  angry.  It  was  Gabbie  Ring, 
the  town  simpleton. 

He  held  out  his  left  leg  to  get  the  light  on  it  and 
regarded  me  expectantly.  He  was  waiting  for  me 
to  say  something  about  the  leap  at  Dunston  Fair — 
that  record  leap  of  his  that  had  turned  his  back 
and  addled  his  brain  twenty  years  ago.  One  always 
did  that  much  for  Gabbie  Ring.  It  is  a  fine  thing 
for  a  man  with  a  twisted  back  or  a  twisted  brain, 
or  even  a  twisted  heart,  to  have  one  heroic  memory 
to  live  with  him.  But  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
utter  the  formula. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  guess  I'll  be  going  along." 
17  ** 


STORM 

"Where  you  goin'  to?"  he  asked,  with  a  curious 
intensity  and  a  tightening  of  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Home,"  I  answered.  I  shook  at  his  hand  gently, 
but  he  would  not  let  go. 

"Oh — I  was  thinkin'  you'd  be  goin'  up  there — " 
Something  in  his  tones  and  the  cunning  look  in  his 
face  made  me  sink  back  to  the  wall.  He  shifted 
his  footing  so  as  to  bring  his  right  leg  into  the  light. 

"Gabbie,"  I  said,  "wasn't  it  you  that  made  that 
long  jump  down  at  Duns  ton  Fair  a  little  while 
ago?" 

"Right  you  are."  He  fairly  jumped  at  my 
words.  "I'm  the  man."  His  crooked  figure  was 
almost  straight.  After  a  moment's  contemplation 
of  the  notable  leg  he  settled  down  to  tell  me  what 
he  had  been  hunting  me  an  hour  to  say. 

"I  was  thinkin'  mebby  you'd  be  goin'  up  to  the 
Ide  girlses'." 

"The  Ide  girls'?"  I  wondered.  Then  I  knew 
what  had  been  amiss  with  the  dance;  the  Ide  girls 
had  not  been  there. 

"She's  up  there— to  the  Ide  girlses'.  An9"— 
he  crowded  very  close  to  me  and  whispered  shrilly 
for  emphasis  —  "an'  he's  comin'  at  eleven  to  get 
'er — the  big  red  feller.  I  was  squattin'  in  the  lee 
of  a  pile  down  to  the  wharf  when  they  was  tellin' 
it."  His  fingers  trembled  with  glee  on  my  sleeve 
while  he  chuckled  over  his  own  craft. 

So  the  thing  was  settled  then.  The  way  was 
chosen,  the  plan  drawn  up,  the  time  appointed,  and 
I,  Joseph  Manta,  must  get  wind  of  it  from  an 
eavesdropping  Gabbie  Ring. 

I  made  no  stir — outwardly,  I  believe,  I  was  as 

252 


STORM 

calm  as  any  man  about  his  ordinary  business. 
But  inside  I  tore  at  myself  and  raged  and  cried 
out  that  I  did  not  care,  because  they  had  killed 
the  caring  part  of  me.  The  night  was  loud  with 
the  clangor  of  the  bell  in  Town  Hall  tower,  almost 
above  us.  I  was  so  sure  it  was  telling  eleven  that 
I  did  not  count.  When  it  was  gone  Gabbie  plucked 
at  me  once  more. 

"You  got  an  hour  yet,"  he  whispered.  I  remem 
ber  vividly  the  sight  of  his  teeth  that  could  not 
meet. 

I  had  an  hour.  What  could  I  do  in  an  hour? 
What  could  I  do  in  a  hundred  hours?  Well,. in  an 
hour  I  could  finish  the  errand  upon  which  I  had 
set  out  from  the  hollow.  It  seemed  an  age  since 
I  had  counted  nine  from  the  hill  behind  Gary 
Betts's.  If  life  is  change,  then  I  had  lived  a  life 
in  that  hour. 

I  wanted  no  company  now.  I  turned  and  slid 
over  the  low  barrier,  sauntered  leisurely  into  the 
shadow  between  two  houses,  and  once  under  cover 
set  out  at  a  run  straight  up  the  dune  behind. 


XX 

DEDO8   COUNTS   SEVEN 

GLEN  STREET  is  about  three  hundred  yards 
to  the  westward  of  St.  Peter's.  Three  doors 
down  from  the  back  street  on  the  left,  a  short 
blind  lane  leads  back  a  few  yards  from  the  street. 
It  was  so  close  here,  and  so  bright  with  the  Glen 
Court  lamp,  that  one  might  almost  be  in  a  narrow 
hall,  with  the  windows  of  the  flanking  houses  giving 
outward  instead  of  in.  The  house  where  the  Ide 
girls  lived  blocked  the  end  of  this  hall,  making  a 
sort  of  stage  with  its  wide  porch. 

I  might  have  walked  up  boldly  and  knocked  at 
the  front  door,  but  instinct  and  embarrassment  in 
league  led  me  round  by  the  narrow  walk  to  the 
kitchen  entrance.  Here  I  tapped  gently  with  the 
tips  of  my  fingers.  I  found  myself  breathing  as 
laboriously  as  I  had  done  on  the  face  of  the  dune. 

When  the  door  opened  it  was  no  more  than  an 
inch-wide  crack.  I  knew  it  was  one  of  the  sisters 
standing  behind  it  by  the  sheen  of  light  through 
a  wisp  of  yellow  hair.  I  pushed  it  open  slowly  and 
quietly  and  stepped  in. 

There  were  five  persons  in  the  room.  The  four 
Ide  girls,  all  so  ludicrously  alike  in  their  spare  and 
impudent  plainness  that  I  could  never  tell  any 

254 


STORM 

successive  two  apart,  were  doing  what  is  technically 
known  to  the  novelist  as  "hovering."  Here  was 
the  night  of  their  apotheosis.  They  were  supremely, 
ecstatically  conscious  of  it.  Their  hovering,  ever  to 
one  another,  had  a  spice  of  formality  about  it,  as 
if  they  were  aware  that  history  was  being  made  in 
their  kitchen.  And  the  hostility  which  drew  them 
together  at  my  intrusion  had  a  certain  insolent 
quality  of  parade  in  it. 

Allie  was  in  the  act  of  rising  from  a  chair  when 
I  first  saw  her.  Now  she  stood  with  one  hand  grip 
ping  its  back  and  the  other  fluttering  at  her  throat. 
By  that  fluttering  hand  alone  could  I  know  that 
she  was  shaken  at  the  sight  of  me,  for  her  head 
was  held  up  straight  and  her  eyes  were  steady  and 
level. 

If  she  had  set  out  deliberately  to  drive  me  mad 
she  could  not  have  done  it  better  than  by  standing 
there  with  her  simple,  ungarnished  beauty  in  the 
midst  of  the  Ide  girls'  drab  adornment.  The  knife 
to  stab  me  had  been  whetted  well  indeed,  for  she 
wore  her  hair  as  I  had  asked  her  to  wear  it  for  me 
long  ago,  parted  and  brushed  down  to  frame  her 
temples.  So  she  had  thought  of  this  for  the  coming 
of  that  roaring  and  lusty  conqueror. 

Well,  I  was  through  with  my  errand.  I  had  seen 
her.  I  had  pushed  the  door  open  with  a  momentary 
burst  of  determination,  but  now  it  drained  away, 
leaving  me  dull  and  foolish.  Without  a  word  or 
sign  those  four  had  put  me  in  the  wrong. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  like  to  see — to  look  at  you, 
Allie,"  I  floundered,  reaching  for  the  door-knob. 
I  have  always  been  slow  about  words — a  failing,  I 

255 


STORM 

believe,  common  among  men  of  much  size.  They 
continued  to  regard  me  in  silence. 

"I  wanted  to  look  at  you — once — "  I  tried 
again,  pleading,  for  all  that  I  prompted  myself 
fiercely  that  I  was  not  the  one  to  be  pleading. 
But  my  head  was  terribly  heavy  and  dull. 

But  it  was  next  to  the  youngest,  Florrie  Ide,  who 
spoke,  with  no  concealment  of  her  hostility. 

"Well,  you  seen  her,  ain't  you?"  she  cried,  and 
added  with  hot  scorn:  "Breakin'  into  folkses'  houses 
this  time  o'  night — the  idee.'9  She  appealed  to  the 
others  if  it  were  not  so,  turning  her  head  in  spiteful 
jabs  on  her  long,  thin  neck.  Another  instant  and 
they  would  have  been  down  upon  me  in  full  cry, 
if  Allie  had  not  held  them  back  with  a  warning 
hand. 

"Will  you  girls  go  into  the  other  room  a  few 
minutes?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  Florrie  screamed,  "we  won't  do  no  such 
thing.  I  know  what  '11  happen  if  that  dirty 
ginny  gets  you  alone — I  do." 

But  she  had  overshot  the  mark.  The  others,  in 
a  panic  at  Allie's  look,  hustled  her  away,  raging 
shrilly  and  kicking  at  them  with  her  pipe-stem  legs: 

Neither  of  us  spoke  for  a  moment  after  the  door 
had  slammed  on  their  commotion.  I  was  begin 
ning  to  see  more  clearly  now  that  my  eyes  were 
more  accustomed  to  the  light  and  the  edge  of 
my  embarrassment  worn  off  a  little.  Allie  was  not 
in  such  perfect  control  of  herself  as  I  had  imagined 
at  first.  Willing  or  unwilling,  she  let  me  see  how 
terribly  she  was  suffering.  The  fluttering  hand  had 
left  the  blue  records  of  its  fingers  on  the  white  neck 

256 


STORM 

when  it  came  away,  and  the  eyes  that  were  so 
steady  were  narrowed  to  keep  them  so.  As  by  a 
flare  of  lightning,  I  saw  all  that  night  in  a  new 
aspect.  I  stepped  closer  and  stood  over  her,  my 
spine  straight  and  tingling,  as  under  the  blows  of 
a  welcome  lash. 

"Allie,"  I  cried — "Allie,  you're  afraid  of  me. 
You  were  frightened  half  to  death  when  I  pushed 
that  door  open." 

She  gave  a  convulsive  little  gasp  at  that  and 
looked  up  into  my  face,  her  own  pressed  between 
her  two  hands.  Her  eyes  had  grown  large,  and  I 
had  the  curious  feeling  that  they  were  fighting  to 
be  glad.  Oh,  why  was  I  so  slow  of  wit?  If  I  could 
but  have  read  that  tentative  and  fearful  light,  men 
would  not  have  died  in  Old  Harbor  that  night. 

She  took  her  hands  from  her  cheeks  and  reached 
up  timidly  to  touch  my  breast.  I  felt  them  there, 
fumbling  and  plucking  at  the  cloth. 

"Joe— ah,  Joe,"  she  said,  her  chin  raised  and 
her  head  shaking  slowly,  "I  am  afraid  of  you,  Joe." 

I  looked  down  straight  into  her  eyes  for  a  long 
time.  I  was  playing  a  game  with  myself.  So  long 
as  I  stood  above  her,  the  one  of  whom  she  had  been 
so  fearful  that  she  had  run  away  in  secret,  so 
long,  perhaps,  I  might  shut  away  the  black 
remembrance  of  all  the  sweetness  that  was  going 
out  of  my  life  that  night. 

Poor,  poor  Allie  Snow.  What  I  did  not  know 
was  that  she  was  playing  a  game  of  her  own,  a 
braver  game,  a  more  hopeless  game  than  mine. 
She  was  trying  to  beat  her  harried  spirit  into  a 
fear  of  me. 

257 


STORM 

Her  right  hand  slid  up  and  lay  on  my  cheek.  It 
was  the  same  gesture  of  unspeakable  caress  with 
which  she  used  to  draw  my  head  down  to  hers, 
when  she  would  press  them  close  together,  cheek 
against  cheek,  so  that  we  should  "think  the  same, 
same,  same  thoughts." 

"Allie,"  I  groaned,  all  the  fight  gone  out  of  me — 
"Allie,  sweetest  Allie,  you  mustn't  be  afraid  of  me. 
God  knows  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me — you 
or  the  man.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  that  any 
of  us  can  do  to  change  things  by  the  width  of  a 
hair.  Don't  you  think  I  know  that  a  heart  can't 
be  driven  or  coaxed  where  it  doesn't  go  of  itself? 
And  don't  you  believe  I'm  kind  enough  to  look  at 
that  and  not  try  to  dodge  it?  Oh,  girl,  I  love 
you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be 
happy  more  than  anything  else  I  know  in  the 
world." 

And  then  that  evil  thing  which  has  pursued  me  all 
my  days  to  make  me  say  to  myself,  "No,  I  will 
never  ask,"  drove  me  away  from  her.  I  stepped 
back  and  waited. 

"If  she  is  coming,  she  will  come  now,"  I  told 
myself.  But  what  was  this  that  she  was  doing? 
I  had  wrung  myself  out  in  those  last  words;  I 
had  felt  her  hand  dragging  at  my  cheek;  I  had  seen 
her  eyes  swimming  with  memories  of  us;  her  body 
had  been  close  to  mine  in  that  intimate  touch 
which,  in  its  own  way,  transcends  anything  else 
in  the  world.  And  now  her  hands  were  hanging 
down  at  her  sides,  and  all  the  light  was  gone 
out  of  her  lowered  eyes.  I  had  a  troubled  sense 
of  having  seen  an  attitude  like  that  in  another 

258 


STORM 

person  that  night,  but  I  did  not  follow  the  memory 
back.  I  know  now;  it  was  Father  Ventura,  when 
I  left  him  standing  in  the  circle  of  light. 

"Well,"  I  said,  I  guess  there  isn't  anything  more 
for  us  to  say."  I  turned  and  opened  the  door. 

"Goodnight,  Allie." 

But  she,  with  a  gesture  whose  heroism  I  was 
long  in  knowing,  commanded  me  not  to  go. 

"Joe — Joe — you  can't  go  like  that.  Listen.  I 
want  to  know  something.  I  want  you  to  tell  me. 
Is  the  right  thing  always  the  right  thing?'9 

She  was  watching  me  with  a  breathless  intensity 
that  made  a  world  hang  on  my  answer.  If  I  could 
only  have  known  for  what  she  was  appealing!  But 
I  did  not.  I  was  dumb  and  bewildered,  and  I 
stumbled  over  my  words. 

"Is  the  right  thing  always  the  right  thing?  Why, 
Allie — I — I  don't  know.  It  must  be — why,  it  seems 
to  me  it—" 

I  went  no  further.  That  last  desperate  spark 
of  light  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes  and  she  waved  me 
away  with  a  listless  hand. 

"All  right,  Allie,"  I  said.  "I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  Good  night." 

And  then  I  stepped  out  into  the  night  that  was 
far  from  good,  knowing  that  the  morning  would  be 
a  very  long  time  in  coming  for  me.  I  could  not 
help  turning  on  the  walk  outside  and  looking  back 
at  her  through  the  doorway.  I  suppose  I  should 
not  have  done  that. 

She  had  sunk  down  sideways  on  the  chair,  with 
her  body  twisted  about  and  her  head  buried  in  her 
arms,  which  were  flung  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

259 


STORM 

For  a  long  time  I  watched  her,  and  she  lay  there 
without  stirring,  except  that  the  curve  of  her  body 
sank  lower  and  lower.  The  quiet  of  the  night 
was  disturbed  by  the  rustle  of  many  feet  coming 
abruptly  within  earshot  at  the  mouth  of  the  court 
and  passing  out  again  as  suddenly  on  the  way  to 
the  front  street.  After  that  I  heard  a  single  clang 
of  the  bell  to  the  eastward  and  knew  that  I  had 
finished  my  errand  in  half  the  hour  given  me. 

Allie  had  heard  it  too.  She  sat  up  hurriedly  and 
looked  at  the  clock.  Then  she  got  up  and  walked 
across  the  floor  to  a  small  mirror  hanging  near  the 
inner  door,  where  she  patted  her  hair  and  smoothed 
out  the  lines  which  had  come  into  her  face  while 
she  held  it  there  in  her  arms.  Her  back  was 
toward  me,  but  in  the  glass  I  could  see  how  wan 
she  was  and  how  she  tried  to  smile,  and  tried  it 
again  and  again.  After  that  she  walked  about 
aimlessly,  turning  her  head  every  moment  to  look 
at  the  clock.  She  was  waiting  for  her  love  to  come. 

I  left  her  there  practising  her  happiness  and 
went  out  into  the  Glen  street.  I  meant  to  go  home, 
but  before  I  had  gone  a  dozen  yards  the  unbearable 
thought  of  four  closed  walls  turned  me  back  toward 
the  water-front. 

I  passed  across  the  front  street  and  into  the  gloom 
of  the  covered  passage  that  leads  to  Joe  Smith's 
lumber-wharf.  I  remember  the  thought,  half  bit 
ter  and  half  whimsical,  that  the  world  had  indeed 
turned  over,  for  a  tank  had  been  dripping  into  the 
passage  all  day  and  now  the  stars  ahead  gleamed  up 
at  me  from  inconceivable  depths,  mirrored  in  the 
pools  among  the  boards.  I  tramped  along  with  a 

260 


STORM 

certain  mechanical  avoidance  of  lumber-stacks  and 
abandoned  carts  till  I  came  to  the  outer  end  of  the 
wharf  and  stood  facing  the  quiet  harbor,  with  a 
silent  schooner  at  berth  on  either  side  of  me. 
Their  crews  were  probably  asleep  below,  but  for  all 
this  I  was  alone  here,  as  I  wanted  to  be. 

The  harbor  was  so  flat  in  the  chill  and  breathless 
air  that  the  riding-lights  of  all  the  scattered  schoon 
ers  told  twice  on  the  beaded  tapestry  of  the  night, 
and  where  the  double  conflagration  of  the  steamer- 
fleet  made  a  brilliant  spot  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down- 
shore  it  seemed  that  the  embers  were  stirring  and 
crackling,  from  the  rumor  of  their  life  that  floated 
across  the  space  of  water  to  me.  And  here  was  a 
strange  thing.  The  quiet  was  so  complete  that  the 
sound  of  a  lanyard  adrift  on  the  forward  shrouds 
of  one  of  the  lumber-boats  and  tapping  softly  against 
the  side  came  distinctly  to  my  ears.  The  leap  of 
a  fish  between  wharves  raised  a  veritable  gale  of 
turbulence.  But  behind  this  hang-veil  of  silence 
I  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  whole  town,  moving 
with  life  and  whispering  for  a  league  along  the  shore. 
I  can  only  think  of  it  as  a  silence  with  a  background 
of  sound. 

My  arms  were  heavy  and  without  feeling.  I 
sat  down  on  the  seaward  side  of  a  lumber-pile, 
with  my  hands  hanging  loosely  over  my  knees. 
My  brain  was  idle  for  a  long  time.  I  stared  out 
at  the  water.  There  came  a  time  when  I  was  aware 
that  I  had  been  counting  the  vessels'  lights  over 
and  over  and  over.  Then  I  fell  to  doing  it  again, 
even  debating  whether  I  should  add  Long  Point  to 
the  total.  It  has  always  been  a  pleasant  thing  to 

261 


STORM 

me  that  in  all  that  dreary  space  of  staring  over  the 
water  no  thought  of  its  healing  touch  ever  entered 
my  mind. 

By  and  by  I  heard  a  sound  of  footsteps  in  the 
passage  at  the  shore  end  of  the  wharf.  The  crews 
were  not  asleep  in  their  vessels,  then.  I  hunched 
myself  as  close  as  I  could  to  the  sheltering  boards 
and  hoped  that  they  might  pass  me  by  unnoticed. 
I  began  to  speculate  as  to  what  kind  of  coasters 
these  two  vessels  might  be.  As  a  usual  thing  they 
would  carry  four  men  apiece,  but  here  came  a 
rumbling  that  no  eight  men  could  ever  raise  on 
the  hollow  drum  of  the  wharf.  I  believe  I  did 
realize  what  the  truth  was  before  I  heard  Dedos's 
voice  quarreling  softly  with  the  haphazard  footing 
among  the  timber. 

If  they  had  come  this  far,  they  must  have  had 
reason  for  thinking  I  was  there,  and  it  would  do 
me  good  to  skulk  in  my  half-shelter  till  they 
unearthed  me  like  a  shivering  rat.  It  was  not  till 
I  felt  the  ache  of  moving  that  I  knew  how  long  I 
had  been  sitting  there. 

"Dedos,"  I  called,  "what  are  you  after?  This 
is  Joe." 

His  grunt  of  relief  and  a  salvo  from  his  popping 
fingers  assured  me  that  I  was  the  quarry.  The 
whole  crew  of  the  Arbitrator  was  with  him.  As  they 
advanced  upon  me  they  made  up  an  absurd  resem 
blance  to  a  night  assault  under  brisk  fire,  with  a 
man  here  and  there  dropping  down  in  the  ranks 
and  cursing  with  subdued  volubility  over  a  wounded 
shin  or  ankle. 

They  would  have  crowded  about  me,  but  Dedos 

262 


STORM 

led  me  away  behind  my  pile  of  boards,  waving 
them  to  stay  back.  His  whole  round  person  quiv 
ered  with  portentous  excitement. 

"I  got  sometheeng  to  tell  you,"  he  whispered. 
"I  found  out  sometheeng.  De  girl  's  up  t'  d' 
Ideses' — an* — an' " — he  thrust  the  fingers  that  re 
fused  to  be  quiet  behind  his  broad  back  —  "an5 
dat  red  debbil  eez  comeen'  dare  at  'leven  t'  tek 
'er  weeth  heem.  Zhoe,  d'you  hear  dat?" 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  I  said,  trying  to  show  him 
how  tired  I  was  and  sick  of  his  persistent  meddling. 
"She's  happy,  Dedos.  Let  her  be." 

Dedos  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  speech. 
He  opened  his  mouth  and  sucked  in  a  huge  breath 
that  whistled  across  his  bared  teeth.  Then  he 
raised  his  chunky  arms  over  his  head  like  a  stone- 
breaker  balancing  to  crush  a  mighty  rock.  He  stood 
up  there  so  long,  thick  and  black  against  the  delicate 
tracery  of  the  schooner's  rigging,  that  my  impatience 
grew  beyond  me.  I  broke  out  in  a  tirade  against  him. 

"My  God,  why  can't  you  people  leave  me  alone? 
You  hound  me  around  like  a  criminal,  you  do. 
There's  no  use  trying  to  make  you  understand; 
all  you  know  is  to  hit  out  at  anything  you  happen 
to  see  in  the  dark.  You  think  you've  got  something 
against  Jock  Crimson  to  fight  over.  Well,  I  haven't. 
He  hasn't  done  anything  to  me.  He's  acting  per 
fectly  natural — just  exactly  like  I'd  act  in  his  place. 
Use  your  head,  man.  If  Allie  Snow  takes  to  his 
kind  more  'n  she  takes  to  mine,  why,  is  that  any 
fault  of  hers  or  his  or  mine?  Say — say?  Do  you 
think  I'm  a  baby  to  kick  the  table  just  because  I 
can't  have  the  cake?  Say,  tell  me," 

263 


STORM 

I  ended  with  a  rush,  almost  choked  with  the 
torrent  of  my  words,  my  hands  gripping  the  lapels 
of  his  coat.  His  arms  flopped  down  to  his  sides,  as 
if  all  the  strength  had  left  his  shoulder  muscles. 

"Zhoe,"  he  muttered,  hopeless  and  bewildered — 
"Zhoe,  you're  kind  o'  meexed  up  t'-night.  You 
ain't  zhust  Zhoe — a'right." 

"I'm  a  lot  righter  than  you  are,"  I  retorted.  I 
had  given  him  time,  however,  to  get  hold  of  himself. 

"Zhoe,"  he  said,  very  slowly,  "I  never  theenk 
eet  come  t'  thees.  You  been  better  t'  me  'n  a  son 
could  'a'  been,  but  I  got  t'  say  eet  t'-night.  I  theenk 
you  scared  you  get  hurt.  An' — an' — he  ain't  's 
big  a  man  's  you  are,  too." 

A  confusion  of  words  tumbled  to  my  lips,  but 
I  stopped  them  before  they  sounded.  I  was  beaten 
down  by  the  sudden  wonder  whether  after  all 
Dedos  had  not  spoken  the  truth.  My  fear  for  my 
face  and  my  eyes,  in  the  black  room  at  the  apple- 
green  house,  came  back  to  confront  me.  I  had 
never  before  stood  up  to  face  this  question,  grown 
of  a  sudden  so  imperative. 

"I'm  not  scared  of  him  or  any  other  man  alive," 
I  muttered,  but  I  was  still  tangled  with  the  question. 

"Den  you're  goeen'  up  dere  an'  fight,"  Dedos 
commanded. 

And  still  I  did  not  know.  I  sparred  him  off, 
blind  and  sullen.  "I've  got  nothing  to  fight  about." 

"I'm  goeen'  count  ten  on  you."  He  stepped 
down  a  little  and  crouched  down  upon  himself. 
He  must  have  recognized  that  the  supreme  task 
of  his  life  was  in  front  of  him. 

"  One,"  he  whispered. 

264 


STORM 

I  had  a  sweeping  desire  to  scream  with  laughter. 
This  abrupt  drop  from  tensity  to  absurdity  was  a 
piece  taken  out  bodily  from  a  burlesque  perform 
ance.  I  looked  about  me  and  saw  that  the  men 
had  drawn  in  and  were  staring  at  the  two  of  us 
with  wide  eyes  that  showed  white  in  the  filtering 
light  from  the  shore. 

"Two." 

I  remembered  now  how  the  man  before  me  used 
to  laugh  when  he  had  seen  a  small  boy  balk  at 
going  to  bed,  quail  at  a  counted  "six,"  and  start 
for  the  garret  stairs  with  a  sullen  celerity  at  "eight." 
I  remembered  how  he  had  popped  his  fingers  and 
roared  at  the  spectacle. 

"Five."  Dedos  had  come  so  far  while  I  was  back 
at  the  little  house,  smiling  at  myself.  I  straightened 
my  back  and  looked  about  once  more.  The  men 
seemed  to  have  drawn  in  closer.  The  fleck  of  a 
white  eye  here  and  there  lent  a  curiously  sinister 
air  to  the  rank  of  familiar  faces.  I  turned  back  to 
Dedos.  All  I  could  see  was  a  strange  black  bundle, 
immobile. 

Of  a  sudden  I  wondered  what  he — what  they — 
had  in  mind  to  do  to  me  if  I  should  wait  to  hear 
the  count  of  "ten" — what  inconceivable  plan  of 
violence  they  could  have  stumbled  upon.  Once 
again  the  dark  bundle  in  front  of  me  gave  voice. 

"Six." 

But  I  had  lost  myself  between  "five"  and  "six," 
just  as  the  boy  in  the  little  house  had  always  done. 
Why  a  man  of  my  size  and  years  should  have 
thrown  back  to  his  childhood  days  at  a  succession 
of  uttered  numerals  is  beyond  me,  just  as  the 

265 


STORM 

seeing  of  ghosts  by  sane  people  is  not  to  be  ac 
counted  for.  I  felt  the  cadence  rushing  on  inex 
orably  toward  a  "seven"  of  some  obscure  and  awful 
portent.  It  came. 

"Seven." 

Dedos  had  whispered  before.  Now  his  utterance 
choked  my  ears  with  its  clamoring  roll,  its  echoes 
stirred  the  crannies  of  all  the  water-front  and 
jerked  me  forward  on  my  toes.  It  was  only  later 
I  realized  that  the  bell  in  Town  Hall  was  striking 
its  first  notes  of  eleven. 

I  stumbled  forward  and  clutched  Dedos 's  shoul 
der.  "Don't  be  a  damn  fool,"  I  gasped  at  him. 
"My  God,  d'you  think  I'm  a  baby  to  scare  with 
that?" 

I  saw  his  lips  forming  for  "eight."  The  bell 
clanged  its  second  pair  of  notes  from  the  eastward 
and  I  was  sure  he  had  counted. 

"Come  on  along,"  I  cried,  "and  in  the  devil's 
name,  keep  quiet." 

He  would  have  fallen  backward  when  he  tried 
to  get  up  had  it  not  been  for  my  hand  on  his  collar. 
After  all,  that  counting  had  cost  him  more  than 
it  had  me. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  what  it  was  I  was  to  do, 
but  I  rushed  about  it  with  the  impetus  of  a  stam 
pede.  I  struck  one  stack  of  lumber  with  my 
shoulder;  it  groaned  crazily  and  fell  away  in  the 
dark  without  fetching  me  up  for  a  breath.  Behind 
my  back  I  heard  the  racket  of  my  men  among  the 
boards  and  the  hollow  boom  of  their  feet  as  they 
came  through  the  passageway  in  my  wake. 


XXI 

TIM 

A  CROWD  was  gathered  about  the  mouth  of 
the  Glen.  There  must  have  been  something 
awesome  about  my  appearance,  for  the  Black  Caps 
cut  apart  to  let  me  through  like  a  school  of  bait 
before  a  vessel's  stem.  And  yet  I  was  not  done 
with  them,  for  the  whole  length  of  the  lane  was 
dotted  with  little  crowds  of  them  that  deployed 
along  the  fence  as  I  passed.  I  looked  back  over 
my  shoulder.  My  men  had  closed  up  on  my  heels 
in  a  compact,  dark  knot,  with  a  sharp  watch  to 
the  flanks. 

A  flare  of  a  match  to  my  right  attracted  my  eyes. 
A  man's  face  came  into  abrupt  light  and  shadow 
behind  his  cupped  hands  which  sheltered  a  cigar 
ette.  The  point  of  peculiarity  was  that  I  knew 
this  face  very  well.  It  belonged  to  Jim  Sanos  of 
the  Mary  Myers,  and  a  neighbor  of  my  own  street. 
As  I  watched  him,  wondering,  I  saw  his  left  eye 
close  meaningly,  followed  by  a  slight  nod  that 
extinguished  the  match.  Over  my  shoulder  I  per 
ceived  him  withdraw  from  the  crowd,  hurdle  the 
fence,  and  run  off  between  two  houses  to  the  east. 
No  less  than  five  matches  flared  out  before  the 
faces  of  men  I  knew  as  I  passed  up  the  Glen. 
Two  of  them  were  skippers,  the  other  three  spare 
18  2OT 


STORM 

hands  of  crews,  and  all  of  them,  following  their 
covert  demonstrations,  began  to  extricate  them 
selves  from  the  lines  of  steamer-men. 

I  had  an  oppressive  sense  of  forces  closing  in. 
That  strange  mob  silence  which  had  marked  the 
whole  night  had  held  during  our  advance  up  the 
Glen,  broken  only  now  and  then  by  the  hiss  of 
whispering  among  the  throng.  Only  once,  as  I 
rounded  into  the  flare  of  the  Glen  Court  lamp,  did 
a  man  laugh  aloud,  and  he  was  cut  off  short  by  a 
neighbor's  thumb  in  his  ribs. 

I  came  into  the  end  of  that  blind  alley  which 
was  so  much  like  the  narrow  hall  of  a  theater,  and 
there  I  halted,  brought  to  a  stand  by  the  tableau 
grouped  in  the  center  of  the  stage.  The  Court  lamp 
illuminated  the  porch  of  the  Ide  girls'  house;  but 
its  light,  flat  and  diffused,  was  not  enough  for  the 
final  triumphant  spectacle  of  the  Ide  girls'  night. 
I  knew  their  handiwork  in  the  two  lanterns  that 
flared  and  smoked  on  either  side  of  the  steps. 

Behind  these  improvised  footlights  the  Ide  girls 
shifted  about  nervously  on  their  thin  legs,  but 
with  more  than  ever  of  that  dramatic  formality 
which  I  had  marked  in  the  kitchen.  It  seemed  that 
every  lift  of  an  arm  or  jab  at  a  straying  wisp  of 
hair  moved  the  romantic  adventure  forward  by  an 
appointed  step.  I  observed  these  things  because 
for  the  moment  two  of  them  screened  the  central 
figure  of  the  group  from  the  angle  where  I  stood. 
Their  backs  were  toward  me,  but  when  one  of  the 
others  pointed  an  agitated  finger  at  me  across  their 
shoulders  they  wheeled  about,  and  in  wheeling 
stepped  apart. 


STORM 

Allie  Snow  stood  there  looking  down  across  the 
little  pool  of  light  at  me.  She  was  dressed  for  going 
away,  with  a  long  cloak  that  fell  below  her  knees 
and  the  tight  bonnet  which  had  pleased  me  so 
much.  A  veil  was  pinned  over  this,  swathing  the 
hair,  but  she  had  lifted  it  away  from  her  face,  as 
I  could  have  known  she  would — Allie  Snow  would 
never  have  gone  out  of  Old  Harbor  with  her  face 
covered.  If  this  woman  who  had  been  mine  was 
happy,  then  let  never  a  mother  pray  happiness  for 
her  child.  I  had  never  believed  that  any  one  could 
be  so  changed  in  a  space  of  mere  hours — and  I  had 
seen  her  no  more  than  forty  minutes  back.  But 
now  the  lanterns  below  threw  crescents  of  shadow 
in  cheeks  that  were  as  white  as  the  broad  shells 
the  children  pick  up  beyond  High  Head.  The 
greatest  change  was  in  the  eyes.  They  had  been 
narrowed  when  I  saw  her  before,  save  for  that  one 
exquisite  moment  when  hope  was  tearing  her.  Now 
they  were  unnaturally  large  and  brilliant  and  dry. 

When  she  saw  me  first  and  knew  who  I  was, 
her  hands  went  up  to  her  throat,  and,  touching  there, 
seemed  to  strike  spark  to  a  flame  that  licked  hun 
grily  at  her  cheeks  for  an  instant.  She  fell  back 
ever  so  short  a  step;  then  she  came  forward  to  the 
edge  of  the  floor  and  faced  me  fairly.  I  have  never 
known  just  what  passed  between  us  while  we  stood 
there  looking  into  each  other's  eyes — whether  it 
was  a  fight  between  our  two  strengths  or  a  sweeter 
battle  for  understanding.  I  only  know  that  after 
a  time  she  did  a  marvelous  thing — she  smiled  at 
me  so  bravely  and  steadily  that  my  heart  was 
stabbed  with  the  agony  it  must  have  cost  her.  I 


STORM 

have  always  treasured  the  memory  of  that  one 
smile,  because  it  was  the  most  utterly  valiant  thing 
I  ever  knew. 

She  could  not  be  brave  the  next  moment.  She 
had  heard  a  sound  inside  of  the  door  behind  that 
set  her  fingers  plucking  at  the  cloak  and  her  face 
half  turned  to  meet  it.  From  where  I  stood  I 
could  hear  nothing  of  it,  but  now  I  remembered 
mistily  having  seen  some  one  running  up  the  steps 
to  disappear  inside.  That  had  been  a  messenger 
of  alarm. 

Now  suddenly  I  saw  the  great  Jock  Crimson 
silhouetted  in  the  open  doorway.  I  have  measured 
that  doorway  since  because  I  could  not  believe  that 
a  man's  shoulders  could  have  spanned  its  width. 
He  hesitated  there  but  an  instant,  turning  his  blocky 
head  with  its  flaming  halo  from  side  to  side.  Then 
he  stepped  out  across  the  porch  shiftily,  with  his 
feet  far  apart,  as  if  he  wished  to  be  ready  for  a 
spring  in  either  direction.  It  was  apparent  that 
the  alarm  had  been  lacking  in  detail.  When  he 
came  as  far  as  Allie  he  pushed  her  aside  with  an 
open  hand  and  stood  blinking  out  into  the  open 
court,  his  knees  bent  slightly,  his  elbows  hitching 
the  coat-sleeves  over  the  wrists,  his  chin  down  to 
hide  his  neck.  The  man  would  have  stood  there 
if  all  the  court  and  the  street  beyond  had  been 
choked  with  men  to  kill  him. 

First  he  stared  at  me  and  nodded,  as  if  to  him 
self.  Then  he  scrutinized  the  rank  of  schooner-men 
flanking  me,  and  nodded  again.  It  was  not  until 
his  eyes  had  come  to  the  fringe  of  black  caps  along 
the  walls  and  followed  them  back  to  the  solid 

270 


STORM 

massing  in  the  mouth  of  the  court  that  he  straight 
ened  up  and  stood  at  ease.  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  bit  at  the  air,  flung  out  his  arms  and  roared 
at  me. 

"Well,  cap'n,  what  do  yoo  say?" 

I  had  never  seen  him  out  of  his  humor.  And  this 
was  the  man  they  had  brought  me  here  to  fight. 
I  knew  now  that  I  hated  him  supremely;  yes,  even 
more  than  I  admired  him;  but  still  I  could  see 
nothing  more  than  the  resort  of  a  cowed  bully  in 
banging  fists  with  the  favored  one. 

So  I  stood  and  gawked  at  him,  having  nothing 
in  my  mind  to  say.  Dedos  breathed  hard  behind 
my  left  shoulder.  A  sense  of  vast  upheaval  smol 
dering  in  train  was  all  about  me  in  the  pent  space. 
If  it  touched  Crimson,  then  he  did  not  show  it. 
He  threw  me  off  with  a  snap  of  his  fingers,  turned  his 
back,  and  took  Allie  by  the  shoulders  to  look  at  her. 

"Well,  little  woman,"  he  laughed,  "arre  we 
ready  t'  get  under  way?" 

She  nodded  at  him  and  winced  a  shade  under 
the  boisterous  pressure  of  his  hand.  He  let  her  go 
with  another  laugh  and  a  soft  buffet  on  the  cheek, 
and  stooped  down  to  pick  up  the  satchel  he  had 
brought  from  the  house  and  dropped  when  he  had 
faced  the  crowd. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  for  the  blow,  what 
ever  it  should  be,  to  fall :  the  stage  was  set  and  the 
players  posted  for  the  final  act  of  the  drama. 
Every  one  within  sight  of  that  grouping  in  Glen 
Court  was  aware  of  it,  and  the  news  had  whispered 
down  through  the  waiting  hundreds  in  the  darkness 
of  Glen  Street. 

271 


STORM 

Crimson  turned  and  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
porch,  with  Allie  behind  him  suffering  the  measured 
affection  of  the  Ide  girls.  He  paused  for  a  moment 
there,  weighing  and  balancing  the  temper  of  the 
crowd  before  him.  He  would  have  to  come  through 
me  and  the  crew  of  the  Arbitrator.  But  was  I  of 
a  mind  to  stand  up  to  him;  and  if  so,  how  promptly 
could  his  friends,  massed  solidly  on  our  flanks  and 
rear,  drive  through  and  smother  trouble?  For  he 
had  no  appetite  for  trouble  with  the  girl  at  his 
heels.  Once  through,  and  with  her  ahead,  he  would 
turn  and  serve  me  with  joy. 

He  had  passed  it  over  and  decided  in  the  time 
it  took  to  change  the  satchel  from  one  hand  to  the 
other.  Any  one  who  knew  Jock  Crimson,  the 
romanticist,  the  passionate  lover  of  the  great  ges 
ture,  would  have  understood  that  he  could  never 
have  decided  any  other  way. 

So  he  would  not  leave  the  satchel  for  one  of  his 
men  to  carry;  he  would  walk  out  with  one  hand  only 
free.  No,  he  would  make  the  gesture  more  superla 
tive,  more  stunning.  He  turned  and  took  a  smaller 
grip  from  Allie's  hand.  I  stood  half  a  head  above 
his  height,  but  he  would  walk  through  me  with 
both  hands  full. 

As  he  turned  to  come  down  he  opened  his  mouth 
and  roared  again.  He  could  no  more  help  roaring 
than  a  whale  can  help  blowing.  Dedos  struck  me 
hard  between  the  shoulder-blades. 

"Wen  he  come  along,  bang  heem  in  a  face,"  he 
muttered  in  my  ear. 

God  knows  my  hands  were  curving  with  the  lust 
to  tear  him,  but  something  within  me  kept  scream- 

272 


STORM 

ing  desperately:  "He's  won  her;  he's  won  her, 
man,  fair  and  open.  Hit  him,  pound  him,  kill 
him,  but  you're  beaten  fair." 

I  was  rocked  between  the  two  till  my  eyes 
misted  and  I  saw  him  distorted  and  gigantic.  I 
wondered  vaguely  why  he  was  so  long  in  coming 
down.  Dedos's  fierce  injunction  droned  monot 
onously  in  my  ear:  I  was  aware  of  my  fellows' 
shoulders  pressing  about  me  with  a  hardly  percep 
tible  motion. 

I  saw  the  man,  midway  of  the  steps,  drop  the 
smaller  grip  and  bend  down  to  handle  something 
which  leaped  up  on  his  leg.  Now  I  remembered 
that  I  had  seen  nothing  of  my  dog  since  I  passed 
through  the  crush  in  the  square.  He  had  lost  me 
then  and  he  had  been  trailing  me  ever  since,  so  far 
as  I  have  been  able  to  find  out.  Agnes  says  he 
dashed  into  the  kitchen  at  home,  panting  hard, 
and  rushed  out  again  when  he  found  her  alone. 

At  any  rate,  he  was  there:  Tim,  the  friend  of 
all  men,  and  utterly  without  doubt  or  guile,  in  the 
perfection  of  his  faith  quite  sure  that  this  extra 
ordinary  must  be  a  kind  of  festival,  and  tottering 
on  his  lumpy  hind  legs  with  his  ready  echo  of 
the  general  joy.  He  had  not  marked  me  in  the 
ruck. 

Crimson  must  have  been  struck  with  the  con 
summate  irony  of  my  dog's  prancing  there  at  his 
knee  to  be  petted,  and  understood  in  a  flash  how 
it  fitted  into  his  great  gesture.  He  let  the  satchel 
drop,  tucked  a  thumb  under  Tim's  collar,  and  waved 
his  free  hand  at  me. 

"See — see,"  he  commanded.    "Look;  look — fetch 

273 


STORM 


5em."  And  when  the  dog's  eyes  had  picked  me 
out  and  he  had  jumped  into  his  collar  to  break 
away  to  me,  the  man  stroked  his  broad,  yellow  head 
and  laughed  aloud  over  the  thing  he  had  in  mind 
to  say. 

"Go  on,  dahg — go  on  back  to  yoor  master  an' 
tell  'im  Jock  Crimson's  allus  wullin'  to  divide  even." 

If  he  could  have  been  content  with  that,  it  might 
be  that  this  book  would  never  have  been  written. 
But  the  man  was  drunk  with  the  splendor  of  his 
triumph,  and  the  swollen  tide  of  his  blood  clamored 
for  the  last  exquisite  touch. 

He  loosed  Tim's  head  and,  lifting  his  boot  sharply, 
kicked  him  down  the  steps  toward  me. 

The  dog  came  down  sprawling  on  the  gravel. 
He  was  up  on  his  feet  in  a  flash,  but  instead  of 
running  to  me  he  turned  and  faced  the  steps. 
That  was  the  first  time,  so  far  as  I  know,  that  he 
had  ever  been  kicked,  and  it  required  a  certain 
space  of  time  for  his  huge  blunt  head  to  make  out 
just  what  had  happened.  You  see,  he  had  to  create 
a  new  emotion  out  of  nothing.  But  when  it  came 
to  life  it  was  full-grown  and  devouring  and  terrible. 

I  could  see  only  his  broad  back,  but  that  was 
enough  to  come  back  to  me  time  and  again  in  dreams 
of  horror.  He  went  up  the  steps  so  slowly,  dragging 
his  hind  legs  stiffly  across  the  wood,  ominous, 
blind,  silent,  inexorable.  I  was  cold  all  over. 
Dedos  was  swearing  terribly  under  his  breath  behind 
me,  although  he  never  could  recollect  it  afterward 
when  I  spoke  of  it. 

The  man  on  the  steps  had  taken  up  his  luggage, 
but  now  he  put  the  two  pieces  down  again  without 

274 


STORM 

taking  his  eyes  from  the  animal.  The  look  in  his 
face  showed  that  his  madness  had  not  made  him 
so  blind  that  he  should  mistake  this  thing.  His 
final  flourish  had  miscarried,  but  he  was  not  yet 
fool  enough  to  try  and  laugh  it  away,  as  he  would 
have  disposed  of  another  blunder.  And  it  was  just 
because  he  could  not  laugh  at  it  that  he  grew  angry 
— consuming  hot  fury  to  match  the  cold  fury  of 
the  beast  that  came  toward  him. 

It  seemed  an  age  that  the  dog's  claws  scraped 
across  the  steps.  When  he  had  come  up  with  his 
front  feet  on  the  step  below  Crimson,  the  man 
bent  quickly,  all  the  overwhelming  passion  of  him 
in  the  motion,  drew  back  his  heavy  boot,  and 
launched  it  out  with  the  whole  power  of  his  leg, 
landing  squarely  on  the  white  diamond  under  my 
dog's  throat. 

Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  that  so  long  as  I  keep  my 
mind !  Forever  I  shall  have  with  me  the  arc  of  that 
limp  thing  wheeling  toward  me,  and  the  echo  of 
a  soft  thud,  and  the  sickness  that  laid  hold  of  me. 
The  dog's  eyes  opened  and  closed  with  the  same 
motion  of  the  lids,  but  they  had  found  me.  One 
of  his  fore  legs  twitched  toward  me.  After  that 
his  head  rolled  over  gently  on  the  gravel. 

Then  the  light  went  out  of  my  reason,  and  there 
came  to  take  its  place  a  murky  dusk  through  which 
a  world  of  black  figures  leaped  and  writhed.  Only 
one  thing  I  knew — that  there  was  some  one  or  some 
thing  a  great  ways  off  through  the  red  twilight  in 
front  of  me  that  I  must  take  in  my  hands  and 
tear  apart. 

And  so  I  set  out  to  go  there.    At  first  I  could 

275 


STORM 

advance  without  the  least  bother.  And  then  those 
writhing  black  figures  began  to  clutter  about  my 
knees  and  trouble  me  with  their  cries  and  pluck 
at  me.  So  I  beat  them  down  with  something  that 
I  held  in  my  hand,  and  stumbled  on  and  on  toward 
this  man  whom  I  must  kill.  By  and  by  a  wave  of 
black  creatures  rose  up  before  me  and  carried  me 
down.  All  this  happened,  I  suppose,  in  the  passing 
of  a  second. 

For  a  second  I  was  stunned.  Then  the  red  light 
filtered  back  to  my  brain,  but  it  was  clearer  now. 
I  felt  that  I  must  get  up  from  there,  and  I  got  up — 
I  was  crazy  with  strength.  I  can  recall  dimly  the 
tearing  of  flesh  in  my  hands,  and  once  the  soft 
crunching  of  a  bone  that  I  held.  I  set  myself  for 
a  twist,  and  flung  my  arms  about  in  a  full  arc, 
emptying  a  six-foot  circle.  I  looked  once  more 
toward  the  porch.  Crimson  was  no  longer  there, 
nor  Allie. 

More  men  came  at  me.  I  swung  them  away 
mechanically  while  I  craned  my  neck  to  look  out 
over  the  mob.  No  matter  what  happened,  I  must 
know  where  my  quarry  had  gone.  Ten  feet  away 
Dedos  debouched  from  a  knot  of  steamer -men, 
head  last,  his  stocky  arms  whirling  about  it  like  a 
towboat's  screw.  Immediately  he  was  swallowed 
up  by  another  charge.  Beyond  the  spot  where  he 
had  been  visible  for  that  evanescent  glimpse  there 
was  a  small  and  ragged  pool  of  straining,  yelling, 
and  gesticulating  figures,  and  every  fourth  man  in 
that  havoc  was  mine,  if  the  tales  they  tell  in  Old 
Harbor  have  anything  of  truth. 

There  was  nothing  in  that  quarter  to  hold  my 

276 


STORM 

eye.  I  was  looking  for  the  spot  of  a  white  bonnet 
and  a  brush  of  red  hair  near  it.  Farther  over, 
where  the  crowd  was  packed  in  the  mouth  of  the 
court,  black  and  dense  and  quiet,  was  where  I 
picked  them  up.  They  moved  away  from  me,  leav 
ing  a  wake  of  slowly  closing  men  behind.  There 
was  never  a  man  whose  voice  would  have  carried 
fifteen  yards  in  that  hell  of  fighting,  but  I  shouted 
with  all  my  lungs  after  them,  cursing  and  pleading 
with  Jock  Crimson  to  turn  and  stand  up  to  me. 

Even,  my  muddled  wits  told  me  that  I  would 
gain  nothing  by  standing  there  and  bawling  into 
bedlam.  If  I  wanted  Crimson  I  must  go  and  get 
him.  Having  found  the  thing  to  do  I  set  about  it. 
A  man  told  me  afterward  that  the  back  of  my  head 
was  gashed  and  the  blood  from  it  running  down 
inside  my  shirt  collar.  I  knew  nothing  of  this. 
My  lungs  filled  and  emptied  easily,  my  muscles 
worked  as  though  they  had  been  bathed  in  warm  oil. 

I  was  beginning  to  roar  like  Jock  Crimson.  A 
man  in  a  black  cap  rose  up  in  front  of  me  and  ran 
at  my  shoulders.  My  fist  drove  at  his  head. 
When  he  flew  away  I  roared. 

I  began  to  move  forward,  one  step  at  a  time, 
but  before  long  I  was  going  faster:  before  I  was 
done  with  it  I  was  moving  almost  at  a  run.  It  is 
hard  to  explain  this  phenomenon.  It  would  seem 
to  outrage  all  the  laws  and  balances  of  nature 
that  one  man  may  put  a  hundred  to  rout,  and  yet 
it  has  been  done  upon  more  than  one  momentous 
occasion.  When  one  man  is  possessed  of  the 
strength  of  twenty,  I  doubt  not  it  is  partly  because 
the  twenty  are  possessed  of  the  strength  of  one; 

277 


STORM 

and  when  the  lone  hero  has  knocked  the  wits  out  of 
one  assailant  he  has  knocked  the  hearts  out  of  five. 

There  must  be  something  of  this  kind  to  explain 
why,  by  the  time  I  had  won  the  mouth  of  the  court, 
a  ragged  lane  began  to  open  before  me,  banked 
with  scores  of  men  who  held  up  their  open  hands 
and  watched  my  monstrous  and  blundering  passage 
out  of  rounded  eyes. 

Perhaps  fifty  yards  ahead  of  me  showed  the  spot 
of  a  lantern's  light,  tormented  by  the  silhouette 
of  bobbing  heads  and  shoulders.  It  must  be  there 
that  I  would  find  my  man.  I  wondered  how  long 
it  would  be  before  he  would  turn  and  stand,  know 
ing,  as  he  did,  that  he  could  send  Allie  on  with  his 
men  to  the  steamer.  He  was  aware  now  that  I 
was  coming,  for  the  awed  rumor  of  it  had  run 
across  the  throng  ahead.  I  was  drawing  up  so 
rapidly  upon  the  glow  of  light  now  that  I  knew  he 
had  stopped. 

They  had  formed  a  hollow  triangle  in  the  packed 
lane,  about  half-way  to  the  front  street,  the  apex 
toward  the  shore.  Thus,  when  the  thick  of  the 
crowd  fell  away  from  me  I  found  myself  blundering 
into  the  space  on  the  broad  side,  with  Crimson  fac 
ing  me  from  the  apex.  The  lantern-bearer  stood 
behind  him,  throwing  his  front  in  deep  shadow, 
but  he  ordered  the  man  away  to  a  fairer  position. 
That  was  the  sort  of  man  I  had  for  an  enemy. 

It  is  curious  how  completely  he  and  I  had  changed 
positions.  Now  it  was  he  who  seemed  collected, 
while  I  was  swinging  my  arms  and  roaring.  I 
roared  at  him  when  I  stepped  into  the  open. 

"Crimson,  I'm  going  to  kill  you." 


XXII 

A   PASSAGE   OF   THE   FRONT    STREET 

HE  had  stripped  off  his  coat  and  shirt.  His 
undershirt  was  red,  and  with  the  fire  of  his 
beard  and  face  and  hair  he  made  a  most  marvelous 
spectacle  in  the  precarious  illumination  of  the  lan 
tern  which  was  never  still  for  an  instant.  He  rubbed 
his  fists  over  the  muscles  of  his  huge  chest  and 
smiled  at  my  turbulence. 

"So  yoo're  goin'  t'  kill  me?"  he  said.  "Would 
yoo  be  wantin'  t'  shake  hands  like  they  do  in 
Corn'll  afore  yoo  do  it?"  He  had  his  palm  spread 
out  as  he  finished. 

"No,  you  red-headed  ,"  I  bellowed,  with 

tears  in  my  eyes.  "I  wouldn't  touch  your  dirty 
hand  if  I  was  to  burn  in  hell.  Come  on — come— 
I  was  dancing  with  impatience  to  be  at  the  business. 
A  hand  clapped  on  my  back  sent  me  jumping  a 
yard  in  a  panic  of  nerves.  I  wheeled  half  about 
and  saw  that  it  was  Dedos.  One  side  of  his  face 
was  shining  with  his  own  blood. 

"You  carryeen'  too  mush  sail,  Zhoe,"  he  cau 
tioned  me.  "Tek  a  reef." 

I  was  furious  with  the  good  fellow  for  holding 
me  up,  turned  my  back  upon  him  without  a  word, 

279 


STORM 

and  squared  away  in  the  center  of  the  triangle, 
crying  again  to  Crimson  to  come  on. 

We  were  pretty  evenly  matched.  There  was  not 
the  difference  of  ten  pounds  in  our  weights,  although 
I  was  the  taller.  Youth  was  on  my  side;  the  wis 
dom  and  cunning  of  a  hundred  battles  on  his.  I 
could  not  understand  why  he  continued  to  hold 
back.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  he  was  afraid 
to  fight,  but  I  taunted  him  with  it. 

"Step  up,  you  skulking  bastard,  you." 

He  never  heard  it.  After  all  my  pains  to  have 
it  done  the  time  was  not  yet  come  to  settle  with 
Jock  Crimson.  He  had  half  turned  away  from  me 
and  was  listening  to  the  whispering  of  a  man  who 
had  fought  in  through  the  crowd.  Now  I  marked 
for  the  first  time  that  the  silence  which  had  come 
down  over  our  preparations  was  no  longer  a  silence. 
A  confused  rattle  of  shouts  swept  over  us  from  the 
direction  of  the  front  street :  it  grew  to  a  monstrous 
din.  All  about  me  I  heard  men  whispering  the 
news  that  the  message-bearer  had  brought  to 
Crimson.  There  was  fighting  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Glen.  I  could  not  think  what  it  could  mean.  It 
must  be  that  the  steamer-men  had  fallen  to  fighting 
among  themselves,  and  yet  would  so  paltry  a  thing 
as  that  turn  Jock  Crimson  away  from  the  finest 
battle  of  his  life? 

Then,  without  apparent  reason,  my  mind  harked 
back  to  the  five  men  who  had  lit  cigarettes  and 
hurried  away  while  I  was  stalking  up  the  Glen. 
Dedos  had  told  me  twice  that  the  town  was  up, 
but  the  idea  had  never  taken  any  hold. 

In  the  blackness  above  us  a  blind  slammed  back, 

280 


STORM 

and  a  woman's  voice  sounded,  disembodied  and 
screaming.  "Dedos— Dedos,"  it  cried.  "It's  th' 
Santos  and  Mabel  Lee." 

Dedos,  beside  me,  looked  up  toward  the  invisible 
window  and  shouted  a  question:  "W'eech  way?" 

"From  th'  west'rd." 

"Den  d'  Diadem  an'  Success  's  weeth  'em,"  he 
muttered.  He  took  hold  of  my  elbow. 

"Dat's  more  'n  a  hundred  men.  Dey'll  try 
close  up  d'  end  o'  d'  street  beefore  her  an'  heem 
gets  out — see?  Dey  driveen'  'em  een  f 'm  d'  west'rd. 
Zhoe,  you  an'  me  goeen'  see  one  fight  now." 

I  was  staring  at  the  spot  where  Crimson  had 
been.  It  was  empty,  and  through  the  shifting  crowd 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  red  undershirt  rushing 
away.  I  started  after  him  in  blind  and  unreasoning 
fury,  but  Dedos  dragged  on  my  arm. 

"Plenty  time  now,"  he  soothed  me;  "I  t'eenk 
dey  shut  'em  back  sure.  We  stay  here." 

"Stay  here  nothing!"  I  bawled,  and  battered  him 
off. 

When  I  had  broken  a  lane  before,  I  had  done  it 
against  men's  faces;  now  I  had  to  work  with  their 
backs,  for  every  one  had  turned  toward  the  shore 
and  the  tumult  of  fighting.  It  had  been  easier 
the  other  way,  with  all  the  blows  I  swallowed,  for 
now  they  clogged  my  way  with  their  passive  weight. 
I  was  forced  to  batter  out  a  path  by  sheer  strength, 
swinging  my  arms  like  flails  and  hoisting  my  legs 
over  the  men  that  fell.  And  so  I  waded  down  Glen 
Street,  wild  with  the  desire  to  catch  my  man,  but 
wary  enough  to  watch  that  I  did  not  pass  him  by  in 
the  ruck. 

281 


STORM 

I  found  myself  roaring  again,  and  cursing  these 
blank  and  idle  backs  I  had  to  pummel,  and  I  hit 
them  harder  than  I  needed,  so  that  some  of  the 
tangle  through  which  I  dragged  my  legs  lay  quiet 
as  dead  wood.  I  thirsted  for  faces,  and  before  I 
was  aware  of  it  I  was  given  faces  in  plenty.  A 
tempest  of  human  fury  burst  about  me,  as  sudden 
as  one  of  those  storms  that  break  in  the  Indies  and 
flick  every  stitch  away  in  the  wink  of  an  eye.  All 
about  were  men  beating  at  one  another,  or  locked 
chest  to  chest  and  wrestling  with  their  backs, 
shouting,  biting,  tearing.  I  was  unutterably  glad 
to  be  at  it  again.  I  put  my  head  down  between 
my  shoulders  and  drove  ahead. 

Some  one's  fist  caught  the  point  of  my  chin  and 
set  my  head  ringing.  I  raised  up,  with  I  know  not 
how  many  men  sliding  off  my  back  and  shoulders, 
and  grabbed  at  the  first  neck  I  saw.  The  feel  of 
it  was  good  in  my  hands.  I  bellowed  and  bent  it 
farther  and  farther  back.  Then  when  I  took  the 
trouble  to  look  at  the  face  that  went  with  the  neck 
my  brain  was  reeling  again.  I  was  hard  at  work 
choking  the  captain  of  the  Diadem,  sister  ship  of 
the  Arbitrator. 

I  had  him  up  straight  away,  with  his  head  rolling 
on  my  shoulder  and  his  mouth  sucking  wind.  Half 
of  the  men  about  me  were  known  to  me  by  name. 
They  were  banked  as  tight  as  bait-fish  in  a  can, 
all  watching  the  fringe  of  fighting  behind  me  in 
the  line  of  skirmish  I  had  come  through  blind. 
Here  and  there  one  clapped  his  neighbor  on  the 
shoulder  and  pointed  to  me  with  gestures  of  delight 
and  astonishment. 


STORM 

And  now  I  looked  about  me.  We  were  standing 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Glen.  The  nearer  fighting  was 
not  so  loud  now,  only  to  the  right,  at  the  down- 
street  angle  of  the  opening,  it  continued  to  rage, 
for  a  thin  line  of  steamer -men  still  poured  out 
of  the  Glen  crowd  around  that  corner  and  into  the 
front  street,  where  they  seeped  away  toward  the 
eastward.  It  was  not  long  before  this  leak  was 
dried  up  and  Glen  Street  was  closed  from  the  shore 
end. 

"Where's  Crimson?"  I  shouted. 

The  men  nearest  to  me  looked  at  one  another  in 
awkward  silence,  each  waiting  for  another  to  answer. 
It  was  evident  that  they  knew  nothing.  One  of 
them  stuck  a  thumb  up  the  Glen  and  said  in  Portu 
guese  that  they  were  keeping  everybody  up  there. 

Oh,  the  consummate  blockheads !  They  had  shut 
the  cage,  but  not  until  the  bird  was  gone  and, 
for  all  I  knew,  half-way  to  Long  Wharf  by  this 
time.  I  stretched  up  on  my  toes,  rearing  a  good 
foot  above  the  heads  around,  and  waved  my  arms, 
gesticulating  to  the  eastward. 

"Down-street!"  I  implored  them.  My  voice 
sounded  high  and  shrill.  "  Everybody  down-street !" 
I  bellowed  again,  and  fought  my  way  in  that 
direction,  with  my  shoulders  against  the  crowd. 
I  think  I  managed  to  start  that  mob  as  much  with 
my  back  and  legs  as  with  my  voice;  at  any  rate, 
the  men  in  front  of  me  began  to  shove  along, 
shunting  their  neighbors  forward  by  gentle  degrees 
till  before  it  would  have  seemed  possible  the  whole 
mass  was  in  motion  without  knowing  why.  Twenty 
yards  and  we  were  on  the  run,  filling  the  narrow 


STORM 

canon  with  the  thunderous  beat  of  our  passage  and 
rattling  the  windows  with  a  riot  of  wordless  voices, 
sweeping  the  street  from  wall  to  wall.  I  have 
never  been  much  of  a  runner,  being  set  up  too  solid 
for  much  speed,  but  I  worked  to  the  head  of  the 
column  by  dragging  at  my  fellows.  I  wanted  to 
be  up  with  Crimson  and  his  charge  before  the  tre 
mendous  weight  of  the  stampede  struck  them. 

The  street  ahead  was  filled  with  a  scattering  of 
figures  pelting  away  beneath  the  string  of  lamps. 
We  rumbled  through  the  narrows  at  the  baker's 
shop,  jammed  in  so  tight,  shoulder  to  shoulder  and 
chest  to  back,  that  more  than  one  man  went  down 
with  his  breath  knocked  out,  and  let  the  drive  go 
over  him.  Above  our  tumult  as  we  passed  Town 
Hall  I  could  hear  the  bell  clanging  in  the  tower. 
Davie  Means  had  broken  in  the  tower  door  ten 
minutes  before.  Later  in  the  night  they  dragged 
him  forth,  so  done  that  he  could  not  lift  his  hands. 

We  had  come  within  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
of  the  square,  and  still  no  sign  of  Crimson.  The 
street  before  us  was  black  with  running  men,  and 
beyond  them  I  thought  I  could  see  where  their 
fellows  turned  to  stand  in  a  wall  across  the  street 
abreast  of  Danzio's  store.  If  that  were  true,  then 
their  leader  could  not  be  far  away.  But  even  at 
that  he  could  make  the  wharf  and  his  vessel  for 
all  of  us. 

If  we  in  the  front  rank  had  had  any  other  wish 
than  to  collide  with  that  living  wall  we  could  no 
more  have  helped  ourselves  than  a  moth  can  fight 
a  tempest.  Our  fellows  were  hurling  us  on  in  a 
solid  drive,  and  behind  them  came  another  drive 

284 


STORM 

of  the  steamer-men  from  the  Glen,  so  that  we  were 
the  meat  in  a  sandwich,  with  one  of  the  slices 
thicker  than  we  knew  at  the  moment. 

I,  for  one,  had  no  other  wish.  My  head  sung 
with  the  clatter  of  our  rush,  and  I  put  it  down 
level  with  my  shoulders  and  went  into  them,  howl 
ing  with  that  strange  lust  for  fighting  that  had 
entered  my  spirit.  Their  line  must  have  gone 
back  ten  feet  at  the  impact.  For  a  moment  I  was 
clear  off  my  feet,  with  a  queer  sensation  of  flight 
through  a  cloud  of  solid  bodies.  On  I  went,  work 
ing  my  arms  and  legs  like  fins  in  the  dark,  and  not 
at  all  bothered  by  the  stray  fists  and  boots  that 
found  me.  I  was  so  blind  about  my  work  that  I 
found  myself  sprawling  on  hands  and  knees  in  the 
almost  empty  square  before  I  had  fairly  com 
menced. 

I  was  dazed  for  a  moment,  because  I  had  imag 
ined  the  place  as  full  of  Crimson's  men.  Instead 
of  that  he  had  left  a  guard  in  his  rear  that  I  had 
tumbled  straight  through,  and  he  himself  was  half 
way  out  along  the  wharf,  where  I  heard  the  rumble 
of  many  boots  in  the  darkness. 

But  the  square  was  not  so  empty  as  I  had  thought 
at  first.  I  had  a  vision  of  many  men  coming  in  at 
a  run  from  the  mouth  of  the  front  street  to  the 
eastward.  Those  in  the  lead  yelled  over  their  shoul 
ders  to  those  who  followed  and  waved  their  hands 
at  the  fighting  behind  me,  whose  racket  filled  all 
the  neighboring  lanes. 

I  had  lost  one  army,  and  now  I  had  found  another 
and  a  larger  one.  The  man  who  came  in  the  lead 
was  Fred  Pigeon,  skipper  of  the  Unicorn,  and  be- 

285 


STORM 

hind  him  ran  Johnnie  Swift,  of  the  Annie  Szvift, 
and  his  spare  hand,  Man'el  Jason,  side  by  side. 
And  there  in  the  pack  I  marked  my  own  father, 
puffing  and  bellowing  with  fight.  Where  they  had 
come  from,  or  how  many  vessels  there  were  of  them, 
I  could  not  know,  and  I  did  not  wait  to  find  out. 
I  was  on  my  feet  and  running  to  meet  them,  one 
hand  held  high  and  the  other  pointing  out  along 
the  wharf. 

"  There,"  I  screamed  at  them, "  out  there !  Don't 
bother  here." 

When  I  saw  that  some  of  them  understood  I 
loitered  no  longer,  but  turned  and  pounded  out 
along  the  wharf.  I  had  not  made  ten  steps  when 
my  ears  caught  the  sudden  thunder  of  their  boots 
upon  the  hollow  planking  behind  me.  They  drew 
up  with  me,  and  the  first  rank  of  us  blundered 
along  abreast,  with  the  glow  of  the  steamers  wax 
ing  on  our  fronts.  Now  that  I  had  them  in  line 
with  the  steamers,  I  could  see  our  quarry  in  silhou 
ette  against  them,  black  and  tossing,  almost  out 
to  the  end.  The  whistles  were  blaring  from  the 
steamers  that  their  steam  was  ready. 

The  man  running  next  me  on  my  right,  a  short, 
lean  dory-hand  from  Lisbon,  carried  a  rifle,  stick 
ing  out  awkwardly  in  front  of  his  belt.  At  every 
other  step  his  finger  went  down  to  play  at  the 
trigger.  I  reached  over  and  flipped  it  out  of  his 
hands  so  violently  that  it  sailed  over  the  edge 
of  the  wharf.  He  had  no  idea  where  it  had  gone 
and  ran  on,  staring  down  at  his  empty  hands 
in  ludicrous  wonder.  There  were  two  people  in 
that  crowd  ahead  whom  I  would  not  have  had 

286 


STORM 

harmed  for  anything  in  the  world.  They  told  me 
afterward  that  seven  men  were  crowded  off  the 
wharf  in  the  course  of  that  journey  and  swam 
back  to  shore  to  pelt  along  again  for  a  sight  of  the 
finish.  One  of  them  was  Gabriel  Deutra,  Dedos's 
nephew.  He  has  a  scar  on  his  forearm  to  this  day 
where  a  spike  gashed  him  when  he  fell. 

The  end  of  Long  Wharf  opens  out  in  a  square, 
about  twice  the  width  of  the  main  causeway. 
To  the  right  or  western  side  of  this  platform 
stands  a  shed  of  considerable  size,  where  Seth 
White  used  to  carry  on  his  trading  in  fish.  The 
outer  side  of  the  building  runs  down  flush  with  the 
wharf,  so  that  fish-baskets  may  be  hoisted  straight 
up  to  the  door.  The  shed  is  on  the  shoreward 
quarter  of  the  square,  leaving  the  seaward  half 
open  and  bare. 

I  place  this  shed  so  exactly  because  my  mind 
was  busy  with  it  as  we  bore  down  the  last  quarter 
of  the  wharf's  four  hundred  yards.  Every  succeed 
ing  moment  the  monstrous  booming  behind  mounted 
in  volume  till  it  seemed  to  thunder  against  the 
sky.  The  guard  that  Crimson  had  left  for  me  to 
stumble  over  would  have  split  by  now,  loosing 
that  horde  in  the  front  street  upon  our  heels, 
schooner-men  and  steamer-men,  all  in  a  pounding, 
tearing,  tripping  race  for  the  end  of  the  wharf. 
It  would  be  nothing  less  than  a  miracle  if  the  hinder 
half  of  this  mad  worm  of  men  should  consent  to 
stop  and  lie  quiet,  for  the  mere  reason  that  the 
head  of  it  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  path. 

That  is  why  I  was  thinking  about  Seth  White's 
building  and  working  gradually  toward  the  western 

287 


STORM 

edge  of  the  runway.  I  had  only  myself  to  think  of 
this  night;  it  did  not  matter  if  a  score  of  my  mates 
went  over  the  end,  but  my  own  person  had  taken 
on  an  importance  to  me  that  it  had  never  had 
before.  I  was  the  one  individual  in  all  that  throng 
who  could  afford  no  mischance  now.  The  time 
was  near,  very  near,  when  Jock  Crimson  would 
stand  up  to  me.  I  had  almost  forgotten  why  I 
was  to  fight,  but  I  needed  no  other  reason  but  the 
parched  thirst  of  my  palms. 

The  illumination  of  the  city  of  steamers  burst 
over  us  like  a  fire-bomb.  The  corner  of  the  fish- 
house  came  up  to  me,  my  shoulder  tore  along  its 
shingles,  jolted  past  a  door-frame,  splintered  a 
little  window,  and  as  the  farther  end  of  the  building 
went  by  I  bore  sharply  to  the  right  and  stood  in 
the  lee. 

It  happened  as  I  had  calculated.  Those  on  the 
inner  flank  of  the  column  broke  away  by  twos 
and  threes  into  the  narrow  open  space,  but  not 
rapidly  to  ease  the  pressure  on  the  outside.  I 
saw  a  man's  arms  go  up  over  the  floor  of  heads 
and  fall  away  as  he  leaped.  There  came  a  sound 
of  boot-soles  grinding  on  wood  and  yells  and 
imprecations  screaming  back  over  the  column  that 
rolled  on  inexorably.  More  arms  were  going  up 
about  the  outer  edges.  Here  and  there  a  man's 
face,  drawn  and  livid,  strained  over  the  pack. 

"Lie  down!"  I  shouted.  "Lie  down,  you  fools — 
/a/Zdown!" 

It  is  doubtful  whether  they  could  have  done  it 
even  had  they  heard  me,  they  were  packed  so 
close.  Before  they  had  banked  up  far  enough  in 

288 


STORM 

the  rear  to  hold  the  weight  of  the  mob,  nineteen 
men  had  gone  over  the  edge.  Three  of  them  never 
came  back.  Of  these  I  knew  one  well — a  half- 
grown  lad  by  the  name  of  Peter  Swift,  who  should 
never  have  been  there  at  all. 

Now  I  could  turn  and  look  at  the  steamers. 
They  lay  in  two  lines — one  straight  out  from  the 
end  of  the  wharf,  made  up  of  eleven  vessels  lashed 
side  to  side,  the  nearest  with  its  wharf -lines  loosened 
and  a  strip  of  dark  water  separating  it  from  the 
dock.  The  other  line  ran  from  the  right  side  of 
the  wharf,  at  right  angles  to  the  first,  stretching 
to  the  westward,  thirteen  boats,  with  the  Bangor, 
Crimson's  boat,  swinging  two  fathoms  clear  of  the 
piling. 

I  had  seen  that  same  spectacle  of  floating  thor 
oughfares  a  score  of  times,  I  suppose,  but  it  had 
never  appeared  to  me  so  strangely  like  the  veritable 
streets  of  a  city  as  now.  Always  before  it  had 
been  deserted  with  the  men  ashore.  As  it  was, 
the  great  bulk  of  their  population  was  cut  off 
toward  shore  by  the  double  stops  of  the  two  forces 
at  my  back,  but  with  the  fraction  which  had  come 
aboard  with  Crimson  passing  up  and  down  the  long 
vistas  of  hanging  lanterns  and  the  doors  and  ports 
of  deck-houses  they  illuminated,  seen  over  the 
crowded  square  in  the  foreground,  gave  it  an  inde 
scribable  air  of  populousness  and  the  glittering 
movement  that  belongs  to  city  nights. 

I  opened  a  way  to  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  abreast 
of  the  Bangor.  A  dozen  men  stood  in  her  waist 
eying  us  curiously. 

"Where's  the  skipper?"  I  called  to  them. 


STORM 

They  nodded  sullenly  toward  the  upper  deck  of 
the  forward  house,  where  were  the  wheel-room  and 
the  state-rooms.  I  had  another  question  ready, 
but  it  was  answered,  before  it  was  uttered,  by  Crim 
son  himself. 

He  came  out  of  the  door  of  the  after  state-room 
and  slammed  it  shut,  holding  it  so  with  his  heel. 
He  leaned  down  a  little,  with  his  hands  on  the  rail, 
and  looked  out  over  all  the  crowd,  covering  it 
slowly,  section  by  section,  till  he  came  to  me  last. 
A  lantern  hung  directly  below  him.  Its  perpen 
dicular  rays,  striking  up  under  his  beard,  gave  him 
an  expression  of  peculiar  ferocity  and  goriness. 

"I  see  yoo  hov  brought  yoor  gang.  Manta,"  he 
said. 

"They'll  not  touch  you  for  one,"  I  gave  him 
back. 

"Do  yoo  want  t'  coom  aboord?"  he  asked.  We 
were  both  speaking  very  evenly. 

"You  come  ashore,"  I  said.  "The  footing's 
better,  and  you  have  my  word  that  nobody  here 
but  me  will  lay  a  finger  on  your  carcass." 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  up  the  lane  of  the 
steamers,  seeming  to  speculate. 

"Wull  yoo  pass  thot  same  word  o'  yoors  thot 
if  I  haul  oop  t'  the  dock  there  won't  be  hand  or 
foot  o'  yoor  crowd  laid  on  ut?" 

I  looked  about  me.  A  great  many  of  the  men 
were  old  shipmates  of  mine.  I  knew  every  one 
within  twenty  feet  of  me  by  sight.  Two  captains 
of  vessels  nodded  to  me. 

"Not  hand  or  foot,"  I  called  back. 

He  shouted  fore  and  aft  to  have  the  lines  fetched 

290 


STORM 

in,  while  I  cleared  a  ten-foot  space  upon  the  boards, 
rushing  the  crowd  with  my  shoulders  till  they 
lifted  up  their  hands  and  cried  that  they  could  go 
no  farther.  My  voice  had  been  steady  when  I 
talked  with  Crimson,  but  my  hands  were  fluttering 
now  like  dry  leaves.  A  wave  of  weakness  went  over 
me.  I  was  so  pale  for  an  instant  that  the  men  near 
me  whispered  and  wondered. 

But  if  they  imagined  that  I  was  beginning  to  be 
afraid  of  Jock  Crimson  they  were  very  far  from 
the  truth.  I  do  not  know  why  that  faintness  laid 
hold  of  me,  but  I  do  know  that  I  was  as  sure  that 
I  should  do  what  I  wanted  with  Crimson  as  I  was 
that  the  wharf  was  beneath  me. 


XXIII 


"A   PAIR   WUTH   TH'    FISTIES" 


HE  came  to  the  side  of  his  craft,  crawled  over 
the  rail,  deliberately  hoisting  his  body  on 
arms  as  thick  at  the  biceps  as  a  common  man's 
thigh,  the  muscles  playing  smoothly  under  the 
flaming  skin.  He  stood  up  to  face  me,. his  fists  on 
his  hips. 

"Well,  ut  hod  t'  coom  afore  we  was  through  ut — 
eh,  Manta?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  impatiently,  for  I  was  tickling 
to  be  at  him. 

"One  of  yoor  friends  got  a  watch?"  he  queried. 

"This  is  none  of  your  dude  fights,"  I  cried,  dis 
gusted  with  his  deliberation. 

"Yoo  don't  want  it  reg'lar,  then?" 

It  occurred  to  me  that  he  was  laughing  at  me. 
I  started  toward  him,  swinging  my  hands  like  any 
school-child. 

"To  hell  with  you  and  your  talk,"  I  bellowed, 
and  rushed  him  with  my  head  down. 

And  here  the  man  might  have  cleared  his  hands 
of  the  fight  and  of  me  without  further  pains 
simply  by  stepping  aside  and  allowing  me  to  gallop 
with  my  eyes  closed  right  over  the  rail  of  his  boat, 
and  ten  chances  to  one  down  the  open  hatch,  a 

292 


STORM 

good  drop  into  a  three-foot  layer  of  stinking  fish. 
But  Jock  Crimson  would  have  cut  off  his  right 
hand  before  he  would  have  done  that,  the  more 
now  he  saw  how  lusty  and  heavy- witted  I  was  about 
the  game. 

So  he  brought  me  up  with  a  blow  on  my  chin 
that  seemed  to  whirl  the  wharf  from  under  my 
feet  and  whirl  it  back  again  at  the  flat  of  my  shoul 
ders,  with  a  million  threads  of  flame  streaming 
across  my  eyeballs. 

When  these  had  cleared  away  I  found  myself 
staring  up  at  a  row  of  inverted  faces,  most  of  them 
with  mouths  open  at  strange  angles.  My  face 
throbbed  with  shooting  spasms,  my  tongue  licked 
at  lips  that  did  not  seem  to  be  mine.  He  had  floored 
me  as  neatly  as  a  boy  might  knock  down  a  sunflower 
stalk. 

He  was  laughing  at  me  now  frankly.  I  got 
myself  to  my  knees  a  little  shakily  and  stared  at 
him,  while  he  rocked  his  great  trunk  back  and  forth 
and  wheezed  at  the  sight. 

"Yoo  need  somebody  t'  show  yoo  home?"  he 
rumbled,  bending  over,  with  his  red  brush  sticking 
out  at  me. 

"Not  yet,"  I  said. 

I  got  up  and  looked  about.  There  was  not  so 
much  as  the  shuffle  of  a  boot-sole  in  the  whole  wide 
throng.  They  stared  at  us,  fascinated,  and  without 
much  hope  for  me,  I  think.  My  eyes  shifted  to 
Crimson's  vessel  over  his  shoulder.  The  door  of 
the  state-room  on  the  upper  deck  of  the  house  was 
swung  back.  In  the  black  frame  of  the  aperture 
the  girl  I  loved  was  standing,  supporting  herself 

293 


STORM 

with  one  hand  on  the  frame  while  she  pressed  the 
other  against  her  cheek.  She  was  so  still  and  white 
that  one  might  have  thought  her  stone  there,  had 
it  not  been  for  her  eyes,  that  seemed  forever  growing 
wider  and  deeper  in  color.  I  wondered  why  she 
looked  so  long  at  me,  and  never  at  Crimson. 

There  had  once  been  a  time  when  I  had  not  won 
dered  at  her  gazing  in  my  face.  I  remembered  that 
now  with  a  wave  of  unutterable  bitterness.  I 
looked  from  her  to  the  red  man  in  front  of  me,  and 
in  that  moment  I  was  done  forever  with  my  old 
weighing  and  balancing.  This  man  had  stolen  her, 
and  I  was  the  animal  man  fighting  for  the  female 
of  his  kind.  Perhaps  a  tenth  of  a  minute  had 
passed;  Allie  Snow  had  stood  there  in  the  black 
doorway  looking  at  me;  and  shame  as  it  may  be, 
I  had  forgotten  there  ever  was  a  dog  by  the  name 
of  Tim. 

"Arre  yoo  comin'  again?"  asked  Crimson,  rock 
ing  on  his  toes.  There  was  a  strange  note  of  sadness 
in  my  voice  when  I  answered  him. 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  coming." 

I  knew  nothing  but  to  charge  at  him  as  I  had 
done  before,  though  he  had  taken  pains  to  teach 
me  better.  He  drew  back  a  step  and  cut  at  me  in 
the  same  deft  way,  but  it  would  have  taken  more 
than  the  force  he  could  put  behind  it  to  stop  the 
man  he  was  standing  up  with  now.  The  sheer 
weight  of  me  carried  me  on,  though  my  head  cracked 
back  on  my  neck  and  the  dance  of  the  fire-threads 
whirled  around  me.  I  stumbled  forward  and  fell 
against  his  chest,  my  arms  slipped  about  his  middle, 
and  I  lay  there  with  my  face  in  his  neck  crying  for 

294 


STORM 

light,  while  his  hand  fumbled  to  get  beneath  my 
throat. 

After  what  seemed  a  long,  long  time  I  began  to 
wonder  why  the  breath  rasped  so  in  the  throat 
that  lay  beside  my  ear.  Then  for  the  first  time 
I  became  aware  that  my  arms  ached  with  a  terrible 
strain. 

It  seems  that  I  was  crushing  his  ribs  in  without 
an  idea  of  what  I  was  about.  He  clawed  desperately 
at  my  throat  with  his  fingers.  His  breath  came 
and  went  in  frightful  gasps  against  my  cheek; 
he  cursed  me  with  a  horrible  oath  and  bit  through 
the  lobe  of  my  ear. 

Had  I  known  the  game  I  would  have  clung  there 
with  my  chin  buried  in  the  hollow  above  his  collar 
bone  till  he  went  limp  and  dropped  down  beneath 
me.  As  it  was,  I  must  raise  my  head  a  little  to 
see  his  face.  And  then  his  forearm  was  under  my 
chin  in  a  flash,  the  hand  gripping  the  biceps  of  the 
other  arm,  whose  elbow  crooked  at  the  base  of  my 
skull.  He  had  been  working  in  desperation  for 
that  hold,  racing  with  the  waning  of  his  strength, 
and  I  had  made  him  a  gift  of  it.  Now,  strain 
horribly  as  I  might,  my  chin  went  back  and  back 
slowly  till  my  eyeballs  seemed  to  be  on  fire  in 
their  sockets.  Crimson  was  in  agony  too,  the  veins 
running  swollen  over  the  puffy,  purple  stain  of  his 
face,  but  he  managed  to  leer  at  me  and  whisper 
in  gasping  periods : 

"Now  you — sucker — I'll — break  your — damn — 
neck." 

Curious  ringings  and  buzzings  began  to  fill  my 
brain.  My  eyes  felt  glazed,  and  out  of  them  I  saw 

295 


STORM 

Crimson's  face  wavering  crazily,  twice  its  natural 
size,  distorted  into  a  hundred  shapes  of  malignance. 
I  knew  that  my  hands  were  loosening  at  his  back, 
for  all  I  could  do.  I  let  go  and  reached  back  to 
pull  away  his  arms,  but  they  were  locked  and  my 
strength  was  nearly  gone.  I  brought  up  my  right 
hand;  I  pounded  at  his  nose  till  his  whole  face  was 
red  from  the  blood  of  it;  I  felt  of  it  and  crunched 
it  in  splinters  under  my  fist.  Tears  streamed 
down  his  cheeks,  but  no  other  sign  did  he  make 
that  he  felt  it.  All  of  him  was  in  his  two  arms. 
We  swayed  there  for  an  endless  time,  two  huge, 
bloody  animals,  and  all  the  thronged  wharf  and  the 
floating  streets  coming  together  there  watched  and 
strangled  with  us  and  did  not  move.  Crimson's 
eyes  were  as  glazed  as  mine  with  the  awful  tension 
of  his  arms.  He  tried  and  tried;  with  all  the 
strength  that  was  in  him  he  tried  to  break  my 
neck,  and  he  could  not  break  my  neck.  As  I  had 
never  known  why  I  had  lifted  the  stone  in  the  hol 
low  behind  Cold  Storage  fields,  so  I  had  never 
guessed  what  the  fruit  of  it  would  be. 

No  arms  fashioned  out  of  flesh  and  bone  could 
close  that  fearful  clamp  forever.  Crimson's  mouth 
opened,  a  horrible  slit  in  a  ground  of  red,  and 
out  of  it  tumbled  the  most  inane  and  senseless 
mutterings. 

The  pressure  over  my  throat  eased  away  by 
spasmodic  degrees  till  the  arm  at  last  slipped 
down  and  lay  upon  my  chest.  Our  heads  dropped 
nearer  to  one  another. 

So  we  stood  there  staring  dully  into  each  other's 
eyes.  Centuries  upon  centuries  of  humanity  had 

296 


STORM 

scaled  away  from  us  in  that  passage  of  minutes, 
leaving  nothing  in  us  but  life. 

After  a  little  we  began  fighting  again.  I  think 
that  must  have  been  the  strangest  battle  of  a 
hundred  years.  I  had  a  wavering  sort  of  notion 
that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  I  could  get  my 
fingers  into  his  eyes.  When  I  clawed  at  them  some 
whimsical  terror  set  him  blubbering.  He  turned 
and  ran  away  into  the  crowd,  twisting  like  a  fright 
ened  rabbit,  and  I  waded  after  him  through  the 
mess  of  men  who  fell  under  my  arms.  When  I 
caught  him  by  the  belt  he  turned  upon  me  with 
such  ferocity  that  I  was  carried  back  three  yards 
before  I  tripped  and  brought  the  two  of  us  down  in 
the  gloom  of  a  forest  of  legs.  Here  we  rolled  about, 
mouthing  and  tearing  at  each  other,  blind  and 
utterly  without  reason.  His  knees  slipped  in  be 
tween  mine.  I  clamped  them  shut  and  began  to 
turn  over,  using  my  arms  as  levers.  By  and  by  I 
heard  his  scream  and  felt  the  bones  bend  and  snap 
and  buckle  up. 

Then  I  went  madder  than  ever.  I  scrambled  to 
my  feet,  bent  over,  took  him  around  the  waist, 
lifted  him  straight  up  over  my  head.  I  yelled  to 
the  crowd  to  open  a  passage.  I  stumbled  along  it 
to  the  western  edge  of  the  dock  and  hurled  the  great 
Jock  Crimson  clear  over  the  rail  of  his  own  boat 
and  fairly  to  the  edge  of  the  yawning  hatchway. 

You  must  remember  that  I  was  quite  mad.  I 
have  to  think  of  that  when  I  wake  sometimes  from 
a  dream  of  Crimson  lying  there  twisted  on  the 
deck,  with  his  broken  legs  dangling  away  into  the 
darkness  of  the  hold. 

297 


STORM 

I  stood  in  the  flare  of  a  hundred  lanterns  and 
stretched  my  battered  arms  high  and  wide  apart, 
open-handed.  All  the  devils  of  hell  romped  through 
my  brain.  I  looked  at  Allie  Snow,  who  had  sunk 
down  on  her  knees  behind  the  railing,  clutching  the 
bar  above  her  head,  and  I  shouted  at  her: 

"Now — by — God,  you  can  take  your  red  devil 
-what  I've  left  of  him." 

Then  I  turned  away,  suddenly  sick  with  the 
sickness  that  follows  drunkenness  and  unutterably 
weary  to  be  away  home. 


XXIV 

A  MATTER   OF  GEOGRAPHY 

BUT  now  there  was  other  business  afoot,  and 
my  road  home  was  destined  to  be  a  very  long 
one  and  full  of  turnings.  Two  hundred  men  had 
seen  Jock  Crimson's  blood,  and  four  hundred  men 
were  hearing  of  it  now,  not  in  shouts  thrown  back 
along  the  column  as  other  news  had  gone,  but 
scarcely  audible,  like  a  slow  wave  on  some  sub 
terranean  sea.  In  the  fore  part  of  the  night  a 
great  many  of  our  men  had  run  and  fought  with 
their  vessels,  with  only  a  half  idea  of  what  they 
were  about  or  why  they  were  about  it,  like  my 
fellow  at  the  foot  of  the  Glen  who  had  pointed  up 
the  street  with  his  thumb  and  mumbled.  The 
spectacle  of  the  monstrous  combat  and  of  me  pitch 
ing  the  great  Jock  Crimson  over  the  rail  of  his 
own  boat  seemed  to  have  burst  open  the  gates  of 
their  imagination  and  made  them  remember  thirty 
mothers  in  their  town  whose  children  had  no  names. 
Somewhere  not  far  from  me  I  heard  the  names 
of  the  Bomar  boys  spoken.  Then  they  passed  away 
on  that  slow  wave  of  sound,  like  the  sullen  belts 
of  red  that  the  Indians  used  to  send  out  among 
tribes  when  the  hatchets  lay  uneasy  in  the  ground. 
Peace  was  hopeless  from  the  beginning — a  matter 

20  299 


STORM 

of  geography.  The  townsmen  lay  between  the 
steamer-men  and  their  steamers;  the  steamer-men 
massed  between  the  townsmen  and  the  town. 

A  half-moon  had  come  up  to  light  the  spectacle 
of  a  town  in  sickness.  In  its  flat  and  ghostly  light 
I  saw  the  tall  shadows  of  two  schooners  moving  in 
almost  imperceptibly  about  Long  Point.  The  bell 
in  the  town  spoke  twelve — it  was  the  morning  of 
the  eighth. 

If  Man'el  were  here  now  he  would  know  what 
to  do.  Man'ePs  brain  worked  with  his  eye  and 
his  hand  followed  his  brain  before  I  would  be  done 
blinking.  Man'el  would  have  been  in  his  element 
here,  talking  with  that  smooth  fire  of  his,  moving 
bodies  of  men  here  and  there,  loving  the  game  of 
it,  but  never  forgetting  for  an  instant  that  he  was 
the  mover  and  not  the  pawn,  while  with  me,  as 
soon  as  I  started  to  use  my  head  I  lost  it  and  must 
go  blundering  off  with  the  game-board  on  my  shoul 
ders.  I  turned  these  things  over  in  my  head  because 
I  was  wishing  that  Man'el  might  be  on  board  of 
one  of  those  dim  ships  that  rounded  Long  Point, 
and  knowing  that  he  would  be  two  days  away  at 
the  Georges,  with  no  possible  knowledge  of  what 
was  going  on  in  Old  Harbor. 

The  wharf  was  beginning  to  hum  again  under 
the  impact  of  a  thousand  feet.  But  it  was  not  the 
staccato  of  a  multitude  running  now,  but  the  insis 
tent,  low  grinding  of  heels  that  pushed.  It  was 
hard  to  say  whether  the  mass  of  men  about  me 
moved  until  my  eye  went  to  the  corner  of  the  fish- 
shed  and  measured  the  passage  of  heads  disappear 
ing  into  the  shadow — the  tail  of  a  human  ram, 

300 


STORM 

who's  head  had  already  found  its  mark,  to  judge 
from  the  rumor  of  yells  and  imprecations  whining 
out  from  the  shoreward. 

Before  I  put  my  shoulder  into  the  crush  I  turned 
to  look  once  at  the  deck  of  the  Bangor.  There  in  the 
garish  illumination  Jock  Crimson  still  lay,  his 
limp  legs  dangling  into  the  darkness.  Allie  had 
come  down  to  bend  over  him  with  a  drenched  cloth 
that  she  pressed  against  his  red  temples.  But  she 
was  not  looking  at  him;  she  looked  at  me  with  an 
expression  that  it  was  far  beyond  me  to  fathom. 

I  remember  the  rest  of  that  night  as  one  recalls 
in  fragments  the  business  of  a  walking  -  dream. 
One  of  those  fragmentary  recollections  is  of  beating 
my  feet  against  the  boards  of  the  wharf  for  a  time 
that  never  seemed  to  end,  my  head  down  against 
the  back  of  the  man  in  front  of  me,  heads  and  arms 
and  shoulders  pressing  about  me,  and  heavy  breath 
ing,  and  occasional  shouts  muffled  by  the  smother 
of  bodies.  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  took,  but  I 
do  know  that  we  swept  upward  of  three  hundred 
steamer-men  off  the  wharf  and  broke  them  up  and 
drove  the  fragments  into  the  back  lanes. 

When  I  came  into  the  square  at  last  and  stood 
aside  from  the  lash  of  the  column's  tail  to  get  my 
breath  it  did  surely  seem  that  Old  Harbor  was 
the  town  of  a  dream — a  ghastly,  blue-lit  dream. 
Its  twisting  lanes  and  alleys  had  changed  to  veins 
of  turbulence,  sucking  in  and  spewing  out  their 
pulses  of  men  gone  mad  with  battle. 

A  knot  of  life  vomited  from  the  mouth  of  Siever 
Street,  writhed  for  an  instant  at  the  edge  of  the 
open  space,  and  vanished  once  more  into  the 

301 


STORM 

shadows,  leaving  only  a  fragment  of  itself  rolling 
on  the  bright  floor  of  the  square.  The  fragment 
evolved  into  a  very  stocky  man  who  blew  and 
squealed  like  a  stranded  porpoise  in  his  efforts  to 
get  his  head  up  and  his  feet  down.  When  he  had 
accomplished  this  I  saw  that  the  stocky  man  was 
Dedos.  He  saw  me  at  the  same  moment,  rolled 
his  blocky  arm  at  me  to  come,  and  doubled  back 
ponderously,  and  with  vast  internal  rumblings,  into 
the  passage,  leaving  a  husky  message  to  trail  over 
his  shoulder:  "Dey  gone  dees  way,  Zhoe.  Come 
on  an'  get  'em." 

And  just  because  I  was  dreaming  I  did  as  he 
bade  me.  I  ran  a  little  way  into  the  lane  and  came 
upon  three  men  standing  in  a  knot  to  face  me. 
The  moonlight  fell  upon  them  through  a  gap 
between  two  houses,  lending  them  a  blue  pallor 
that  fetched  me  up  short  in  my  rush,  to  stand  there 
laughing  weakly  at  them.  They  appeared  very 
small  and  wan,  and  the  whites  of  their  eyes  glim 
mered  in  the  sheen  of  the  moon.  I  waved  my  hand 
at  them  and  ran  on,  looking  for  bigger  men.  I 
ran  through  alternate  strips  of  pale  light  and  pale 
shadow,  past  writhing  and  cursing  couples  that 
tore  at  one  another,  through  the  pelting  shreds  of 
a  rout  and  pursuit.  Men  were  fighting  on  the 
gravel  in  the  middle  of  the  lane;  men  were  fighting, 
invisible,  in  the  pits  between  houses;  they  were 
pounding  and  clawing  their  fellows  on  the  stoops 
of  houses  and  tangled  in  the  nets  of  chicken-yards. 

I  ran  through  them  all  and  came  to  the  back 
street,  but  found  no  big  men.  It  grew  to  be  more 
than  ever  like  a  dream  because  of  the  forever- 

302 


STORM 

recurring  picture  of  black  forms  diminishing  as 
they  fled.  In  the  post-office  street  there  were  two 
neighbors,  shipmates,  hard  at  each  other's  throats 
in  a  square  of  shadow,  and  it  was  not  till  I  had 
them  apart  that  they  looked  at  each  other.  I 
left  them  staring  and  bewildered,  and  passed  down 
the  road. 

There  used  to  be  a  dream  of  my  childhood  in 
which  I  seemed  to  walk  along  a  corridor  that  had 
no  end,  illuminated  from  no  apparent  source  by  a 
dead,  shadowless  light.  And  here  now  was  the 
corridor  and  the  lifeless  exhalations  of  the  moon. 
Only  there  were  shadows  in  post-office  street. 
Half-way  down  its  length  I  came  upon  a  shadow 
that  filled  it  from  wall  to  wall.  It  was  not  till  I 
had  almost  run  into  it  that  I  perceived  it  to  be 
made  of  men.  There  must  have  been  fifty  of  them — 
one  of  those  fragments  that  had  been  driven  out  of 
the  square  and  not  yet,  for  some  reason,  broken 
up  into  its  component  parts. 

"Now,"  said  I  to  myself — but  aloud,  I  believe — 
"now  I've  found  something  that  will  stand  up  till 
I  hit  it." 

One  of  the  front  rank  waved  a  club,  part  of  a 
broken  oar,  at  me.  It  must  have  been  this  that 
struck  the  back  of  my  head  when  I  lumbered  into  the 
pack,  roaring  again.  I  thought  that  my  head  left 
my  shoulders  and  flew  away  into  a  distant  world  of 
chattering  and  buzzing.  After  a  while  it  came  back, 
slowly  at  first,  as  if  perhaps  it  had  lost  its  way,  then 
at  a  faster  pace,  till  it  landed  on  its  proper  spot 
with  a  staggering  impact.  After  that  I  raised  myself 
on  my  hands  and  looked  about.  My  shadow  of 

303 


STORM 

men  had  turned  to  a  little  swarm  of  bobbing  backs 
running  away  as  fast  as  they  could  toward  the 
front  street.  There  was  a  taste  of  warm  salt  on 
my  lips.  I  got  to  my  feet,  with  Old  Harbor  run 
ning  around  and  around  me  in  crazy  circles,  and 
the  hands  I  put  to  my  head  came  back  all  red  from 
the  kiss  of  that  broken  oar. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  get  that  fellow,"  I  said, 
with  conscious  care  to  utter  each  word  distinctly 
and  correctly.  When  I  had  come  to  the  end  of  the 
statement  I  started  off  at  a  rush,  only  to  collide 
almost  instantly  with  a  fence  which  the  whirling 
town  had  set  down  in  my  path.  I  stopped  and 
spoke  my  sentence  again,  then  ran  on,  grazing  a 
wall  and  veering  into  a  willow-tree,  but  gaining 
impetus  at  every  stride,  till  I  burst  into  the  glare 
of  the  front  street,  a  monstrous  and  gory  portent, 
I  have  no  doubt.  Men,  idle-handed  for  the  mo 
ment,  pointed  me  out  wonderingly  to  one  another 
and  shouted  words  at  me  that  I  could  not  under 
stand. 

It  must  have  been  an  hour  that  I  ran  about  the 
neighborhood,  and  all  that  time  the  grim  festivities 
were  at  their  height.  So  many  scores  of  stories 
about  obscure  battles  in  hidden  corners  have  come 
down  from  that  night  in  Old  Harbor  that  no  man 
can  hope  to  keep  them  straight.  It  will  always 
be  but  a  blind  jumble  of  tales,  this  epic  of  my 
town. 

As  for  me,  I  can  tell  only  a  little  of  what  I  did. 
I  believe  it  was  back  in  the  post-office  street  again 
that  a  man  I  was  following  hard  suddenly  turned 
and  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  at  me.  The  stone 

304 


STORM 

hit  my  left  arm  a  little  above  the  elbow.  Strangely 
enough,  there  was  but  little  pain  about  the  blow, 
no  more  than  a  cold  shiver  creeping  down  into  my 
hand.  But  when  I  would  have  raised  my  arms  to 
threaten  his  receding  back,  only  my  right  one 
lifted  up.  I  did  not  try  to  understand  this  phe 
nomenon,  but  ran  on  after  him,  roaring  louder 
than  ever. 

I  had  passed  neighbors  fighting  before.  Now  in 
the  back-street  shadows  I  came  upon  brothers, 
blind  and  spent  with  their  orgies,  hacking  feebly 
at  one  another.  And  in  the  Glen — for  I  went  as 
far  as  the  Glen — I  came  upon  the  grimmest  spec 
tacle  of  my  life. 

Dedos  had  picked  me  up  just  then,  and  we  came 
into  the  Glen  side  by  side,  blowing  heavily.  Two 
hundred  feet  down  the  street  a  man  came  toward 
us  at  a  shuffling  trot  that  shook  out  of  his  lips 
squeal  after  squeal  of  anguish  and  utter  horror. 
Behind  him  came  a  more  agile  pursuer,  leaping 
against  the  background  of  light  in  the  front  street 
and  closing  in  upon  him  at  every  bound. 

"He  squeak  lek  one  peeg,"  Dedos  panted  in  my 
ear.  "We  cut  heem  off  here  an'  geeve  heem  to 
leetle  feller." 

And  that  was  what  he  did  run  like — an  old  sow 
with  the  fear  of  death  in  her.  In  an  instant  more 
he  would  have  come  into  the  flare  of  the  court 
lamp  and  we  should  see  who  this  animal  might  be. 
He  lumbered  into  the  half -glow  of  the  outer  circle, 
but  there  the  other  was  upon  him.  I  have  not  the 
slightest  idea  but  that  he  was  out  of  his  mind  with 
fright  and  gifted  with  a  moment  of  hysterical 

305 


STORM 

strength,  for  we  saw  him  whirl  about  with  a  nerve- 
racking  shriek  and  bury  his  slighter  enemy  almost 
completely  out  of  sight  in  the  swathing  pads  of  his 
flesh.  His  knees  knocked  together  and  doubled 
under  him,  letting  him  fall  to  the  ground  with  a 
soft  thud  and  his  prey  flattened  out  under  his 
mountainous  form. 

When  we  came  up  to  him  he  was  still  screaming 
desperately,  his  eyes  shut.  We  both  knew  him 
for  Danzio,  the  fruit  merchant.  We  had  hard 
work  to  roll  him  over  for  a  sight  of  the  bird  he  had 
caught,  because  his  hands  hung  with  determination 
to  the  throat  of  the  bird.  But  at  last  I  had  him 
loose  and  dragged  him  off  with  my  whole  arm, 
kicking  and  bleeding,  into  the  full  blaze  of  the 
light,  where  I  laid  him  out  to  get  back  his  senses. 
I  heard  Dedos  grunt  from  the  gloom  where  he 
remained  to  tend  to  the  other  one  of  our  pair. 
Then  he  said  something  too  low  for  me  to  catch. 

"What's  that?"  I  called  to  him. 

"I  guess  he's  got  heem,  aPrigh'." 

The  quality  of  his  voice  more  than  the  meaning 
of  his  words  brought  me  up,  as  a  tragic  circumstance 
will  often  sober  a  drunken  man.  We  had  beaten 
and  broken,  that  night,  but  not  killed. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked.  He  answered  that  he  did 
not  know,  but  would  bring  him  into  the  light.  I 
saw  him  emerging  from  the  shadow,  back  on,  with 
a  limp,  loose  object  at  the  trail  in  front  of  him. 
When  he  had  come  a  little  way  into  the  circle  he 
let  go  his  grip  and  stepped  one  side,  for  his  shadow 
had  been  upon  the  thing.  I  looked  at  the  face  that 
lay  lolling  there.  Then  I  looked  away,  trying  to 

306 


STORM 

tell  myself  dispassionately  that  my  eyes  had  played 
me  a  trick — a  horrible  trick  that  rocked  the  world 
under  my  feet  for  an  awful  instant.  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  look  down  again.  I  turned  toward 
Dedos,  and  there  he  was,  staring  at  me  with  dilated 
pupils,  as  though  he  were  seeing  a  ghost. 

So  my  eyes  had  not  played  me  that  grim  trick, 
after  all.  It  was  the  two  Danzios  who  lay  in  the 
glare  of  the  court  lamp — fat  Gabriel,  and  Jamie, 
who  looked  so  much  like  his  mother. 

From  up  and  down  the  Glen  men  were  coming 
to  see  why  we  stood  so  peaceably  in  the  light. 
They  crowded  in  a  ring  about  us,  staring  down  and 
pointing  with  their  fingers.  The  pain  of  wounds 
grew  all  over  me.  My  head  was  too  tired  to  think 
any  more.  I  could  not  understand  why  I  should 
hear  a  sound  of  wild  song  from  the  front  street, 
for  men  had  not  been  singing  that  night.  I  stum 
bled  out  through  the  thickening  circle  and  down 
the  reeling  street,  and  still  the  notes  of  men's 
singing  persisted  before  me  and  grew  in  volume  and 
tangled  themselves  with  the  tramp  of  feet.  It 
seemed  that  no  matter  where  I  might  go  this 
night,  forever  I  was  thrust  back  upon  my  boy 
hood:  here  were  men  caroling  the  song  that  little 
Man'el  and  I  used  to  sing  together  when  the  tide 
before  my  father's  house  was  running  with  the 
blood  of  sunset: 

Menina  bonita, 
Posta  a  ganella, 
A  mao  de  esparela, 
A  quern  na  vai  ver, 

Tra  lara,  lara  .  .  . 
307 


STORM 

For  the  last  time  that  night  I  was  starting  to  go 
home.  I  came  into  the  front  street,  rolling  like  a 
man  in  his  cups,  turned  to  the  westward,  and 
brought  up  face  to  face  with  the  singing  men. 

It  was  Man'el,  my  brother — or  it  seemed  in  my 
half-dream  to  be  Man'el — slim,  lithe,  handsome, 
strong  and  weak  Man'el.  He  had  on  his  soft  hat 
and  his  smooth -pressed  clothes;  he  walked  with 
the  swing  of  a  cavalier,  and  behind  his  back  came 
the  crews  of  those  two  cloud-vessels  I  had  marked 
off  Long  Point,  fifty  men,  marching  jauntily. 

Man'el  hailed  me. 

"Hy,  Joe!  Come  as  soon's  we  could — in  time  to 
do  the  cleanin',  I  guess." 

Then  he  had  come  up  to  me  and  halted,  with 
a  burlesque  word  of  command  to  his  rollicking 
army. 

"I  see  their  smoke  off  Monumoy  day  before 
yesterday,  and  I  knowed  they  was  bound  here, 
sure  as  you're  alive — but  they  wasn't  any  wind. 
Where's  Allie?" 

"Gone."  I  was  so  sick  that  I  hardly  cared  to 
tell  him  even  that.  He  looked  at  me  with  an 
abrupt  and  puzzled  seriousness — one  of  his  peculiar 
qualities. 

"Johnnie  Sousa  told  me.  I  met  him  up-street," 
he  said. 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  this,  for  he  and  his  men 
and  the  street  and  the  moon  were  beginning  to  go 
round  again  in  a  sweeping,  slow  circle.  His  voice 
came  to  me,  muffled  by  great  distance: 

"My  God!    Joe,  you're  all  cut  to  pieces." 

He  reached  out  and  grabbed  my  hand,  the  left 

308 


STORM 

one.  I  remember  screaming  at  the  fire  that  scorched 
my  arm.  Then  the  wheeling  world  spun  up  and 
up  into  the  blackening  sky.  And  I  was  conscious 
that  I  started  to  fall,  but  never  knew  when  I 
struck  the  ground. 


XXV 

I   WAKE   IN   THE  NIGHT 

THEY  tell  me  now  that  I  lay  dead  for  a  time, 
and  then  came  back  to  burn  through  days 
and  days  and  nights  and  nights  with  fever.  The 
doctor  will  have  it  that  I  must  have  run  about 
the  streets,  a  huge  and  bleeding  apparition,  for 
upward  of  an  hour,  with  a  hole  the  size  of  a  half- 
dollar  in  the  back  of  my  skull.  I  have  to  take  these 
things  on  the  word  of  others. 

Here  is  one  thing,  however,  that  I  will  put  for 
ward  for  the  doctors  to  handle  over.  All  that  time, 
which  might  have  been  the  tail  of  a  second  or  the 
bulk  of  a  century,  although  my  spirit  was  as  dead 
as  a  spirit  may  be,  yet  I  was  forever  conscious  of 
being  in  pain. 

After  so  long  a  time  I  began  to  dream.  It  seemed 
that  I  lay  in  my  own  bed  at  Dedos's  house,  and 
that  some  one  had  bound  my  arms  and  legs  and 
body  about  with  innumerable  soft  cords,  so  that  I 
could  not  move  so  much  as  a  finger,  no  matter 
how  I  tried.  It  was  morning  in  my  dream,  for 
there  was  a  spot  of  sunlight  on  the  gable  of  Rummy 
Veeder's  house  that  came  between  the  chimneys  of 
the  roof  above  my  head.  At  first  it  seemed  that  no 
one  was  in  the  room,  but  I  could  say  this  only  for 

310 


STORM 

the  half -circle  in  which  my  eyes  moved,  for  I  could 
not  lift  my  head.  After  a  time  that  might  have  been 
very  long  or  very  short  the  chamber  began  to  fill 
with  figures,  more  and  more  of  them,  till  the  walls 
were  hidden  from  sight  by  them.  The  strange  thing 
was  that  all  these  figured  persons  were  alike,  and 
all  were  Allison  Snow.  They  made  up  an  unspeak 
ably  beauteous  company,  those  shadowy  loves  of 
mine.  I  summoned  all  my  flickering  will  to  stand 
behind  my  eyes,  but  still  I  could  not  see  the  faces 
of  that  bright  troop  through  the  glamorous  mists. 
Their  weightless  hands  smoothed  the  edges  of  my 
bed;  they  spoke  to  me  in  soundless  chorus,  telling 
me  that  they  loved  me  with  such  a  love  as  had  never 
been,  telling  me  sweet,  intimate  things  that  I 
cannot  so  much  as  guess  at  in  remembrance  because 
they  belong  to  those  avenues  of  the  mind  which  a 
man  in  his  reason  may  never  pass  along. 

I  lay  there  in  the  warm  vapors  and  watched 
them  go  away,  one  by  one,  till  I  was  alone  in  the 
room  again  and  must  go  away  again,  myself,  into 
the  black  spaces. 

My  first  conscious  memory  is  of  waking  in  the 
night  and  seeing  a  candle  near  the  bed  in  my  own 
room.  I  thought  I  would  call  for  some  one  to 
come,  but  in  my  lassitude  I  put  it  off  and  put  it 
off,  till  the  time  for  it  had  passed  by  and  I  drowsed 
and  slept. 

Then  I  woke  again.  It  was  late  afternoon,  with 
a  ribbon  of  sunshine  crawling  upon  the  wall  oppo 
site  my  bed.  I  lay  quiet  for  a  while,  my  mind  as 
empty  and  clean  as  a  baby's.  There  is  an  instant 
in  the  morning  when  one  has  no  past.  Then  it 

311 


STORM 

comes  back  in  fragments,  bolts  flying  at  one  from 
every  corner  of  the  chamber,  till  at  last  one  has 
them  all  gathered  in  and  may  stretch  and  get  up. 
I  had  been  asleep  a  long,  long  time,  and  so  those 
fragments  came  back  to  me  more  reluctantly. 
Strangely,  I  remembered  little  things  first — that  I 
had  just  returned  from  a  cruise,  a  "high  trip." 
Then  I  wondered  where  my  dog  might  be — and 
remembered.  And  then  another  fragment  of  my 
past  bowled  at  me — the  great  fight — and  my  virgin 
and  colorless  world  had  so  soon  turned  dark  and 
troubled  and  intricate.  For  fast  on  the  heels  of  the 
fight  I  remembered  that  my  life  had  lost  the  thing 
upon  which  I  had  spent  all  the  energy  of  my  heart 
and  squandered  all  my  store  of  hope.  And  then  I 
would  have  slipped  back  into  the  shadows  if  the 
wish  would  have  carried  me.  It  was  so  bitter  to 
wonder  where  she  might  be  now,  with  her  new  love. 

Some  one  had  come  to  the  side  of  my  bed.  Per 
haps  it  was  a  wisp  of  that  dream  I  had  had  trailing 
through  the  channels  of  my  mind  that  made  me 
afraid  to  look  up  for  a  moment.  When  I  finally 
turned  my  eyes  I  saw  the  Handkerchief  Lady's  girl 
standing  over  me  with  a  glass  of  water  in  her  hand 
and  an  expression  of  startled  gladness  in  her  eyes 
to  find  me  come  back. 

"Joe,"  she  whispered. 

"What  is  it,  Agnes?"  I  said.  And  then  she  knew, 
and  tiptoed  off  to  tell  Dedos,  but  would  not  let 
the  heavy  man  come  in,  as  I  heard  through  the 
half -open  door. 

The  sun  went  away,  and  I  slept.  Morning  came, 
and  I  awoke  and  lay  awake  a  great  part  of  the  day. 

312 


STORM 

The  house  was  always  very  quiet,  even  when  little 
Johnnie  Bangs,  whose  father  had  given  me  pills 
before  I  was  out  of  dresses,  came  in  to  sit  by  me 
and  hold  my  wrist  and  talk  the  patter  of  his  new 
doctorhood. 

The  following  day  old  Dedos  was  allowed  to 
pass  the  door.  He  stood  there  before  me,  blushing 
like  a  girl  of  fourteen,  teetering  from  one  monstrous 
foot  to  the  other.  It  seems  the  big  numbskull  had 
been  overcome  by  embarrassment  at  the  last  mo 
ment,  even  after  he  had  rehearsed  with  his  wife 
the  meager  words  of  greeting  he  was  allowed,  and 
had  to  be  shoved  into  the  room  in  the  end.  His 
rehearsal  had  gone  for  nothing.  He  stood  and 
stared  at  me  with  a  foolish  grin  on  his  face  for  a 
full  five  minutes,  I  should  say,  and  then  in  despera 
tion  blurted  at  me: 

"You  done  heem  up,  Zhoe.  You  done  heem  up 
fine — great." 

After  that  he  ran  off  the  stage  like  a  child  on 
declamation  day,  forgetting  his  bow.  Agnes  brought 
in  the  children  softly  for  a  moment  that  after 
noon.  And  all  these  visitors  I  met  with  as  sturdy 
a  smile  as  I  might  manage,  telling  them  that  I 
was  happy  and  well.  It  was  through  the  hours 
when  no  one  was  about  that  I  lay  there  hugging 
the  aching  truth  close  to  me,  asking  myself  time 
after  time  what  I  was  to  do  with  myself  now. 
Something  said  I  ought  to  be  a  man  about  it,  at 
any  rate,  and  another  something  answered  that 
when  I  was  so  weak  I  might  be  as  low  a  coward  as 
I  would. 

Darkness  came  early  that  evening  because  an 

313 


STORM 

easterly  air  had  covered  us  up  in  a  fog.  Far  and 
far  away  I  could  hear  the  whistle  of  the  Race 
moaning  about  it,  and  nearer  at  hand  the  chatter 
of  a  surf  that  was  making  up  on  our  own  beach.  I 
went  to  sleep  after  the  rain  had  commenced  to 
patter  on  the  shingles. 

I  do  not  know  what  time  of  night  it  was  when  I 
opened  my  eyes.  A  candle  was  burning  beside  my 
bed,  but  below  the  edge,  so  that  its  flare  should 
not  fall  in  my  eyes.  No  one  in  the  world  but  Allison 
Snow  was  kneeling  there,  looking  down  in  my  face. 
Her  own  was  white  and  hollow-cheeked,  with  wide, 
tired  eyes.  The  light  from  below  brought  out  the 
worn  contours  of  the  cords  at  the  base  of  her  neck, 
where  the  flimsy  garment  thrown  over  her  night- 
clothes  fell  open  a  little. 

"She  must  have  been  very  sick,"  I  said  to  myself. 

Then  I  made  another  observation. 

"She  has  not  been  so  happy  for  a  year  as  she  is 


now." 


I  was  extremely  deliberate  in  turning  these  things 
over.  That  would  keep  my  mind  busy  until  I  was 
prepared  to  understand.  She  was  dreaming  so  that 
she  had  not  marked  that  my  eyes  were  open.  She 
lifted  one  of  her  hands  and  pretended  to  smooth 
my  brow,  but  without  touching  it.  It  was  then 
that  she  must  have  seen,  for  she  half  rose,  with  a 
quick  intaking  of  breath  and  startled  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  must  go!"  I  heard  her  whisper. 

But  she  did  not  go;  only  crouched  there  and 
looked  into  my  eyes  that  looked  back  into  hers. 
I  do  not  know  how  long  we  remained  so,  crying  to 
each  other  in  that  wordless  speech,  reaching  out  to 

314 


STORM 

each  other  with  that  touchless  caress.  At  last  she 
took  in  a  long,  quivering  breath  and  let  her  head 
sink,  face  buried,  in  the  pillow  beside  my  head. 
There  she  lay  and  sobbed  and  sobbed,  so  long  a 
'time  that  I  cried  to  her  to  tell  me  the  matter; 
begged  her  in  God's  name  to  let  me  know  why 
she  was  so  unhappy.  But  all  she  would  answer 
me  was  that  she  must  go,  that  she  had  stayed 
too  long,  and  the  like  of  that,  smothered  by  the 
linen. 

After  a  while,  for  all  I  could  say,  she  slipped  out 
of  the  room,  leaving  me  to  begin  the  rebuilding  of 
my  castles  by  the  wavering  flame  of  the  candle 
she  had  left  behind.  And  all  the  monstrous  wind 
that  boomed  over  the  roofs  out-of-doors  could  not 
shake  a  stone  of  that  building,  laid  without  a  ques 
tion  of  how  it  came  to  be  there. 

The  next  day  the  doctor  found  a  little  return  of 
fever,  which  made  him  wrinkle  up  his  forehead 
wisely,  but  not  wisely  enough  to  know  that  that 
fever  was  a  covenant  that  I  should  never  be  ill 
any  more.  When  Agnes  came  in  I  said  to  her, 
without  preliminary: 

"Why  was  Allie  here  last  night?" 

"She's  been  here  most  of  the  hours  every  night," 
she  answered,  with  that  queerly  made  smile  of  hers. 
"And  days,  at  first,"  she  added. 

"I  want  to  see  her  now,"  I  demanded. 

"She  has  gone  out  for  a  walk;  I  made  her  go." 
She  turned  away  with  a  hint  of  finality,  and  I  knew 
I  could  get  no  more  from  her  then. 

"Will  you  tell  me  where  Man'el  is?"  I  asked  her. 

"He  sailed  away  day  before  yesterday,"  she  said, 

21  315 


STORM 

"as  soon  as  he  knew  you'd  come  back.    Now  you 
must  stop  talking." 

It  was  two  weeks  from  that  day  that  they  would 
have  let  me  walk  as  far  as  the  beach  on  Dedos's 
arm.  But  when  they  opened  the  door  Shank 
Painter  was  crowded  to  the  fences  with  men  and 
women  and  children  waiting  to  see  me,  and  so  I 
could  not  go.  The  next  day  they  slipped  me  out 
and  back  again  before  folks  were  up  from  their 
dinners. 


XXVI 

I    WATCH    THE    SHIPS    GO    BY    AND    HEAR    A    STORY 

THERE  came  a  day  when  Allie's  arm  was  strong 
enough  for  me,  and  we  could  go  as  far  as  the 
last  dune  that  looks  away  over  the  salt-marshes 
and  the  rim  of  sand  which  makes  a  neck  for  Long 
Point,  and  beyond  that  the  stretch  of  water  which 
hardly  knows  whether  it  is  bay  or  ocean.  Here  the 
vessels  go  back  and  forth  so  close  inshore  that 
from  the  dune  they  appear  like  orphaned  clumps  of 
rigging  walking  slowly  and  sedately  along  the  rim 
of  sand. 

We  sat  on  the  blueberry  turf  near  the  top  of  the 
hill  and  watched  them  go  by  for  a  long  while,  with 
no  other  words  than  the  names  I  gave  the  passing 
craft.  Somehow  we  both  knew  that  when  we 
came  to  speech  we  would  have  to  break  a  certain 
silence  that  was  as  old  now  as  the  seventh  of 
October.  For  in  all  this  time  of  my  mending  I  had 
never  asked  her  a  question;  and  she,  knowing  me 
better  than  any  one  else  will  ever  know  me,  under 
stood  that  I  was  not  yet  ready  to  know  why  she  had 
gone  away  from  me  and  why  she  had  come  back. 

It  was  one  of  those  mid-autumn  days  which  I 
can  describe  only  as  spacious.  It  is  one  of  the 
catch-words  of  our  civilization  that  the  world  is 

317 


STORM 

a  small  place,  but  from  the  top  of  an  Old  Harbor 
hill  on  one  of  those  days  it  seems  a  tremendous, 
big  world,  after  all.  A  vast  number  of  little  clouds, 
huddled  about  the  horizons,  multiplied  the  immen 
sity  of  the  chamber  of  the  sky  by  the  very  insig 
nificance  of  its  furnishings.  The  marshes  stretching 
away  below  us  appeared  to  have  borrowed  magni 
tude  from  the  void  overhead,  and  the  wavering 
tide-channels  became  the  threads  of  mighty  and 
populous  rivers,  their  further  ends  veiled  by  their 
own  luminous  breathings. 

"Sweetheart,"  I  said,  my  hand  stretched  out  to 
the  westward,  where  a  toy  schooner,  far  out  and 
clear  of  the  sand,  came  sailing  free  for  the  Race — 
"sweetheart,  there's  the  Rose  Dorothy,  and  now 
I'll  see  Man'el." 

"Man'el,"  Allie  repeated  after  me,  but  as  if  to 
herself.  "Man'el — Joe,  do  you  know  anything  in 
the  world  about  your  brother?" 

"Sometimes  I  think  I  do,  and  sometimes  I'm 
sure  I  do  not,  sweetheart.  What  makes  you  ask 
that  now?" 

"Because  I've  always  had  a  kind  of  feeling  against 
Man'el — as  though — oh,  as  though  he  didn't  just 
want  you  to  have — things — "  She  faltered  for  an 
instant  only,  then,  shaming  her  own  shame — "to 
have  me." 

"Oh,  my  sweetheart!"  was  all  I  could  say.  But 
she  was  not  waiting  for  any  words  of  mine. 

"And  then  when  I  saw  him  coming  out  along  the 
wharf  that  morning,"  she  went  on,  not  looking  at 
me,  "why,  somehow  I  knew  there  was  a  different 
part  of  Man'el.  You  don't  know  what  he  did — they 

318 


STORM 

haven't  told  you.  It  was  just  when  the  sky  was 
getting  gray  before  sunrise  that  I  saw  him  coming 
out  along  the  wharf  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  whistling.  I  was  standing  before  the  wheel- 
house  on  that — that  steamer — and  there  were 
crowds  of  men,  some  of  them  with  bloody  faces  and 
broken  arms,  all  watching  him  from  the  decks. 
I  wanted  to  cry  to  him  to  go  back  or  they  would 
kill  him,  but  I  was  so  terribly  weak  that  my  voice 
sounded  like  a  whisper.  When  he  came  out  to  the 
end  of  the  wharf  he  stopped  and  looked  around  at 
the  steamers,  just  as  calm — you  know  that  smooth, 
calm  way  of  his — just  as  calm  as  if  there  weren't 
four  or  five  hundred  men  there  raging  to  pick  him 
to  pieces.  'Where's  this  Crimson  fellow's  ship?' 
I  heard  him  ask  one  of  them,  a  big  man  with  his 
ear  hanging  half  off  and  a  gaff  in  his  hands.  And 
all  that  man  did  was  to  start  polishing  the  gaff  and 
nod  toward  the  Bangor.  Man'el  stepped  aboard, 
and  nobody  touched  him.  He  sat  on  the  rail 
looking  them  over  and  whistling  to  the  end  of  his 
tune.  'Where's  this  Crimson  fellow?'  he  asked 
next,  and  two  of  them  nodded  up  at  the  state-room. 
Well,  Joe,  he  didn't  hurry  a  step — he  just  sauntered 
around  to  the  ladder  as  if  he  owned  the  ship,  came 
up  and  banged  open  the  door  and  stepped  in — you 
see,  I  had  come  in  the  moment  before,  because  I 
had  heard  Jock — "  She  broke  off  there,  with  a 
catch  at  the  end  of  the  word,  which  she  had  never 
spoken  to  me  before. 

My  right  hand  was  lying  on  my  knee.  She  bent 
over,  took  it  up  in  both  of  hers,  and  kissed  the 
palm  of  it,  pressing  it  fiercely  over  her  lips. 

319 


STORM 

"I  heard  him  calling,"  she  went  on.  "All 
night  I  had  been  bathing  his  head  and  trying  to 
keep  him  out  straight  and  easy,  and  when  he  was 
wild  I'd  had  two  or  three  of  the  men  in  to  help  me. 
So  now  he  wanted  a  drink,  and  I  was  getting  it 
for  him  when  Man'el  opened  the  door.  And,  Joe, 
your  brother  just  stood  there  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  laughed  and  laughed. 

"I  see  you're  keeping  house  all  cozy,'  he  said 
after  a  while.  Then  he  went  on  laughing  harder 
than  ever.  Jock  had  gotten  himself  up  on  one  arm. 
I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  a  man's  face  as  there  was 
on  his  face — where  you  could  see  it  through  the 
bandages.  He  raved  at  Man'el  till  the  blood  began 
to  run  out  under  the  clothes. 

:'What  yoo  doin'  here,  yoo — V  He  called  him 
a  frightful  name. 

"I  come  to  get  the  girl,'  Man'el  answered  him, 
still  grinning. 

"That  was  too  much  for  Jock.  He  tried  to  yell 
something,  but  he  fainted  before  he  could  get  it  out 
and  fell  back  in  the  bunk.  Man'el  made  some  joke 
about  his  being  a  sound  sleeper  and  then  asked  me 
if  I  was  coming  along.  I  just  pointed  at  the  bunk 
and  shook  my  head,  thinking  he  would  understand 
that  I  must  stay  and  take  care  of  him  while  he 
was  like  that. 

' '  So  Joe  didn't  spoil  him  enough  to  change  your 
ideas?'  he  said  then. 

"'Oh,  Man'el,'  I  cried,  'can't  you  see?' 

"'Can't  I  see  what?'  he  asked.  He  didn't  give 
me  time  to  tell  him,  but  snapped  his  fingers  and 
lifted  his  shoulders  and  said:  'Never  mind,  it 

320 


STORM 

doesn't  matter  to  anybody  now.  It  doesn't  bother 
this  man  Crimson,  because  he's  taking  a  nap,  and 
it  doesn't  matter  to  you  or  me,  because  you  and 
I  don't  care  about  anything  in  the  world.  It  doesn't 
matter  to  Joe,  because  he's  dead/ 

"'Man'el,'  I  said,  'what  are  you  talking  about?' 
I  can  remember,  Joe,  I  had  my  hands  up  in  front 
of  me  as  if  I  were  praying.  But  he  stood  shrugging 
his  shoulders  and  giving  me  the  queerest  grinning 
look.  It  seemed  to  me  if  I  could  only  make  him 
speak,  somehow,  he  would  say  it  different.  I  ran 
to  him  and  took  hold  of  his  shoulders  and  patted 
them  and  begged  him:  'Man'el,  Man'el,  what  did 
you  say?' 

"'Allie,'  he  laughed  at  me,  'don't  try  and  make 
a  fool  of  me — just  because  you've  done  it  to  two 
men  already.  It's  so  hard  on  the  fool,  Allie.' 

"Oh,  Joe,  I  had  been  thinking  about  it  all  that 
night — but  I  was  the  one  who  was  the  fool — a  little, 
shivering  wisp  of  a  fool  who  had  to  have  men 
killed  before  she  could  see — that  right  isn't  always 
right. 

"But  I  didn't  let  go  of  his  shoulders  until  he 
swore  and  pushed  me  off.  He  wasn't  laughing  any 
more.  He'd  gotten  pale  and  snarling  and  bitter. 
I  felt  as  if  there  wasn't  anything  to  hold  me  up — 
Oh,  my  Joe,  I  never  understood  till  that  minute 
that  you  were  the  only  real  thing  in  my  world,  the 
one  person  always  there  when  I  turned.  I  don't 
know  whether  Man'el  kicked  at  me  or  not  when  I 
was  on  the  floor,  but  he  was  bitter  enough  to  have 
done  it.  I  wouldn't  have  cared  if  he  had  kicked 
me  in  the  face,  because  I  heard  his  voice  above  me 

321 


STORM 

saying  that  he  wasn't  sure  you  were  dead,  and  how 
you  had  fallen  in  the  street  and  been  carried  home 
senseless.  Oh,  Joe,  Joe,  Joe — " 

She  broke  off  once  more  and  sat  for  a  few  mo 
ments  silent,  her  fingers  interlocked  and  tugging. 
When  she  went  on  again  she  spoke  more  steadily. 

"I  told  him  to  take  me  to  you  quickly. 

"Oh,  you've  decided  to  go,  have  you?'  he  sneered 
at  me.  'Hadn't  you  better  put  on  your  nice  hat 
and  cloak?'  But  I  didn't  listen  to  him.  I  opened 
the  door  and  tugged  at  his  arm.  I  wanted  him  to 
come,  because  I  was  afraid  the  men  would  stop  me — 
there  was  a  big  crowd  of  them  from  all  the  steamers 
on  our  deck  looking  up  at  the  door.  There  is  surely 
something  queer  about  Man'el.  He  walked  down 
through  them  with  me  behind,  and  he  never  seemed 
to  know  they  were  there — as  if  they  were  so  many 
dogs  afraid  of  a  switch.  When  we  were  on  the 
wharf  some  of  them  followed  after  us,  without  seem 
ing  to  know  what  to  do,  till  they  saw  Man'el's  men 
at  the  shore  end,  and  then  they  stopped — and — I 
came  on  to  you." 

So  there  I  had  it.  Three  schooners  slid  along  the 
sandy  causeway  in  stately  procession.  I  watched 
them  come  to  the  Race  and,  one  after  another, 
curtsey,  flutter,  and  stand  away  on  the  new  tack 
for  Peaked  Hill.  The  leader  of  the  three  was  the 
Arbitrator,  with  Dedos  in  the  skipper's  berth.  I 
became  aware  of  Allie's  eyes  fixed  upon  my  face. 
But  still  I  stared  at  those  clumps  of  sails  and  the 
water  beyond  and  the  little  wind-clouds  fighting 
about  the  sky-line.  I  was  very  happy  because  she 
had  come  back,  and  I  felt  that  any  shadow  that 

322 


STORM 

fell  upon  my  happiness  would  be  the  shadow  of  a 
traitor.  I  was  very  happy — ah,  but  I  had  not 
wanted  her  to  come  back  because  I  was  sick.  I 
knew  no  more  now  than  I  had  known  before.  Why 
had  she  gone  away? — because  she  loved  another 
better?  She  had  not  told  me  no.  There.  For  all 
I  could  do,  the  traitor  had  stood  up  to  cast  his 
shadow. 

She  saw  that  shadow  just  as  plainly  as  though 
it  lay  on  the  ground  at  her  feet.  It  was  as  hard  for 
Allie  Snow  to  talk  as  it  was  for  me,  but  she  had 
known  that  this  time  was  coming  inexorably  to 
meet  her. 

"Joe,"  she  broke  out,  "do  you  know  how  much 
Jock  Crimson  paid  for  me?" 

"  Paid— for— you— " 

It  was  so  terribly  hard  for  me  to  think. 

"Yes,  paid  for  me  in  money.  Almost  a  thousand 
dollars,  Joe." 

I  reached  out  and  grasped  her  shoulder,  turned 
her  roughly  to  face  me. 

"How — what  do  you  mean?" 

"He  has  given  it  to  father  for  us  to  live  on. 
That's  how  he  has  paid  for  me." 

She  rushed  on. 

"Have  you  ever  wondered  how  Big  Sam  could 
afford  to  build  that  fine  house  on  Pink  Hill?  Have 
you  ever  seen  Seth  Adams  spending  more  money 
than  he  ever  could  earn  in  his  life?  Have  you  ever 
wondered,  Joe,  why  my  father  was  never  locked 
up,  like  Will  Hemans  and  Charlie  Young?  I  will 
tell  you.  It  was  because  Will  Hemans  and  Charlie 
Young  were  not  rich  men — and  because  they  had 


STORM 

no  friend  to  arrange  things — with  Big  Sam  and 
Asa  Nickerson  and  the  rest — " 

"Wait,"  I  said.  I  wanted  to  think.  "On  the 
night  your  father  was  taken  I  saw  Crimson  and 
Asa  Nickerson  talking  together  in  an  alley." 

"Yes.  He  had  started  then.  What  he  did 
through  that  night  neither  of  us  will  ever  know — 
who  he  coaxed  or  bullied  or  threatened.  He  has 
never  spoken  of  it — to  me.  He's  never  said  a  word 
about  the  whole  thing — never — not  even  on  the 
boat,  when — well,  just  never.  I  didn't  even  know 
he  was  giving  my  father  the  money  till  this  summer. 
You  remember  the  night  when  he  came  to  the 
house — and — you  saw  us  in  the  doorway?  Joe, 
dearest,  I  could  have  died  then  and  been  glad  of  it." 

Her  head  was  down  between  her  shielding  hands, 
and  she  shivered.  My  own  hands  were  clenched  so 
that  the  nails  left  white  marks  on  the  palms  when 
I  had  opened  them  again.  Jock  Crimson,  my 
enemy,  and  he  had  been  so  much  better  than  I. 
This  was  the  thing  that  made  me  tear  my  palms. 

"He  always  told  me  he  was  going  to  take  me 
away  some  day,"  Allie  went  on,  without  raising 
her  face.  "It  was  so  hard  to  fight  him,  always  and 
always  and  over  and  over — you  can't  know,  Joe. 
Whenever  the  fleet  came  here  he  came  to  the  house 
and  gave  my  father  money,  and  nay  father  told  me 
it  was  the  income  from  some  property  in  Gloucester 
that  nobody  knew  about  but  himself  and  Jock. 
Jock  was  'ministering'  it — that's  what  my  father 
told  me,  and  that's  what  I  believed.  No,  Jock 
never  played  upon  it;  perhaps  if  he  had,  it  would 
have  been  a  fairer  fight.  He  only  came  to  me  as  if 

324 


STORM 

it  were  his  right.  It  was  hard  to  fight  him — the 
splendid  animal,  with  his  hot  blood,  the  joy  he  took 
in  moving  and  breathing,  his  roars  of  laughter  when 
I  tried  to  keep  away  from  him.  Oh,  it  made  me 
so  tired — so  tired. 

"And  then  people  began  to  notice  and  talk — 
everybody,  it  seems  to  me,  but  you.  Man'el  knew. 
Do  you  remember  the  time  we  went  out  toward 
the  Race  and  sat  on  the  hill  and  saw  the  steamers 
coming  in?  The  night  before  that  Man'el  had 
been  throwing  Jock  in  my  face.  I  told  him  the 
truth,  and  he  wouldn't  believe  it — " 

"I  thought  you  were  talking  about  me,"  I  said. 

"I  wondered — when  I  saw  Tim  there." 

"I  have  been  very  dumb." 

"Yes,  Joe.  Or  one  without  suspicion.  You  and 
Crimson  are  alike  in  some  ways.  Man'el  is  different. 
Man'el  would  have  guessed  long  ago  that  Agnes 
was  my  sister.  And  I — I  could  never  tell  you  about 
Jock.  I've  tried  to  make  you  know  many  times. 
But  you  never  knew.  You  only  realized  that  I  was 
troubled,  and  that  made  you  sad.  You  beat  your 
hands  against  it — you  cried  out  with  a  tight  mouth. 

"That  night  when  you  saw  us  standing  in  the 
doorway,  my  father  had  just  blurted  out  in  anger 
because  I  would  not  let  Jock  kiss  me,  that  he, 
Jock,  had  kept  us  alive  for  the  past  year — screamed 
at  me  the  very  number  of  dollars  and  cents  Jock 
had  given  us — given  us.  If  you  could  know  how  I 
felt  then — how  ashamed  I  was,  and  how  utterly 
weary,  and  how  just  at  that  moment  I  didn't  care 
what  happened!  I  looked  at  Jock  and  hated  him, 
and  yet  he  seemed  like  a  sort  of  refuge  where  I'd 


STORM 

never  have  to  be  tired  again.  And  then  he  had 
paid  for  me — and  my  father  was  not  in  prison. 
Oh,  I  (Jidn/t  care — I  didn't  care.  I  wanted  to  be 
through  with  everything  and  go  away  and  forget 
and  rest — rest.  Just  for  a  moment  I  cared — when 
I  saw  you  standing  there  by  the  gate.  I  had  a 
crazy  idea  that  you  were  going  to  rush  up,  grab 
me  by  the  shoulders,  shake  me,  cry  out  that  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  gratitude,  tell  me  I  was  a 
fool,  tell  me  that  right  was  what  you  wished  right 
to  be  and  wrong  what  you  made  it.  Oh,  Joe —  But 
then,  you  could  not  know.  And  you  went  away. 
There  was  another  time  when  I  wanted  you  to 
say  that—" 

"I  know,"  I  broke  in,  bitterly.  "It  was  when 
we  stood  in  the  Ide  girls'  kitchen  and  I  said  'good 
night."3 

"Yes,  in  the  Ide  girls'  kitchen,  where  I  had  run 
because  I  didn't  see  you — then  I  would  have  had 
to  fight  again — as  I  did.  But  you  did  say  it — you 
did  say  it — in  the  end." 

"When?" 

"The  instant  after  Crimson  did  that  terrible  thing 
to  Tim.  The  look  that  came  into  your  eyes  then 
seemed  to  snap  a  cord  that  had  been  growing 
tighter  and  tighter  about  my  brain  for  months. 
Then  just  at  that  moment  I  knew  that  every 
thing  would  be  right,  no  matter  what  should  hap 
pen.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  have  known  sooner, 
perhaps  I  would  not  have  killed  five  men  that  night 
— because  I  killed  them — even  Jamie  Danzio — and 
my  own  father." 

She  stared  straight  ahead  for  a  minute,  with 

326 


STORM 

wistful  lines  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and 
strands  of  her  brown  hair  (she  had  parted  it)  blow 
ing  down  over  the  trouble  on  her  brow.  Then  I 
drew  her  head  down  against  my  shoulder  and  held 
my  hand  over  her  eyes  and  kissed  her  hair. 

"Oh,  Joe,  I  love  you  so  very  much!"  she  whis 
pered. 

"While  we  were  still  in  the  crowd,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  little,  "I  tried  to  make  Jock  understand 
that  everything  was  changed,  but  there  was  so 
much  noise  and  jostling  that  I  couldn't.  When  we 
came  aboard  he  led  me  up  to  the  state-room.  He 
was  in  a  terrible  hurry  to  get  out  on  the  wharf 
again,  but  he  took  time  to  turn  at  the  door  and 
ask  me  to  kiss  him.  I  drew  back  into  a  corner, 
shaking  my  head.  He  couldn't  understand;  then 
he  thought  I  was  tired  and  nervous. 

"' What's  the  matter?'  he  asked.  'Got  the  shiv 
ers?' 

"Jock,'  I  said,  'I've  got  to  go  back  ashore. 
There's  been  a  mistake.'  He  laughed  at  me,  with 
his  head  back  and  his  mouth  wide.  Then  he  came 
and  took  hold  of  me  so  hard  I  thought  he  would 
snap  my  arms.  He  patted  my  head  and  told  me 
to  lie  down  and  rest,  that  I'd  feel  better  after  a 
little. 

"'I  got  a  piece  of  business  with  a  friend  of 
yours,'  he  told  me,  'and  I  can't  keep  him  waiting.' 
He  had  been  holding  me:  now  it  was  I  who  held 
him  from  going  out  of  the  door. 

"Listen — please  listen,'  I  cried  to  him.  Then 
I  tried  to  explain  things,  but  they  were  all  so 
twisted  and  jumbled  that  it  only  made  him  curious. 

327 


STORM 

He  sat  down  on  the  bunk  and  asked  me  to  go 
slower.  Oh,  Joe,  how  awful  he  looked!  Just  the 
sight  of  his  red  skin  made  me  creep.  I  was  deathly 
afraid  of  him,  and  I  hated  him  more  than  you 
could  ever  hate  him.  I  stood  up  before  him  and 
dug  my  nails  into  the  palms  of  my  hands,  saying 
over  and  over  to  myself:  'I  must  make  him  see — 
I  must  make  him  see.'  Then  I  told  him  the  whole 
thing  again,  trying  with  every  little  bit  of  me  to 
pick  out  the  words  I  meant.  After  a  while  I  saw 
him  turning  from  curiosity  to  anger;  that  fright 
ened  me  more  than  ever,  because  I  had  never  seen 
him  angry  in  all  the  time  I  had  known  him.  He 
reached  out  for  my  arm  and  spoke  so  low  that  it 
made  me  want  to  scream.  'In  my  country,  when 
a  man's  woman  gets  this  way,  the  man  beats  her. 
That  makes  her  well  again.'  He  raised  his  head 
and  listened,  and  I  heard  the  wharf  outside  boom 
ing.  The  booming  grew  louder  and  louder. 

"  *I  wish  you  would  beat  me — I  wish  to  God  you'd 
beat  me  to  death,'  I  cried.  He  was  up  and  at  the 
door. 

"Til  do  that,  and  I'll  do  it  damned  quick  if  I 
catch  you  outside  of  this  door,'  he  said  to  me,  in 
the  same  low  voice.  'Now  I've  got  to  attend  to 
that  friend  of  yours.'  He  went  out  and  closed  the 
door.  I  know  he  held  it  shut,  because  I  pushed 
and  pounded  at  it.  You  couldn't  hear  me,  but  I  was 
calling  to  you.  I  waited  then  a  minute  or  so.  When 
I  tried  again  the  door  opened  and  I  came  out." 

There  was  another  silence  now. 

"You  won't  mind  if  I — if  we  don't  think  about 
the  next  little  while,  will  you,  Joe?" 

328 


STORM 

"And  afterward?" 

"Afterward  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  was 
so  frightened  of  all  those  men  on  the  decks.  And 
yet  I  knew  I  couldn't  leave  that  man  bleeding 
there,  and  the  others  seemed  afraid  to  do  anything 
for  him.  All  the  rest  of  the  night  I  took  care  of 
him,  and  I  never  once  thought  of  being  ashamed 
of  my  happiness.  I  was  happy  and  frightened  by 
turns,  for  every  now  and  then  I  heard  the  men 
out  on  deck  saying  that  they  had  better  be  getting 
under  way.  Then  they'd  argue  about  it,  keeping 
me  hot  and  cold  for  ten  minutes  at  a  time — whether 
they  should  go  and  leave  all  their  mates  ashore. 
We  knew  what  was  going  on  in  the  town,  from  the 
yells  and  screams  that  never  died  away.  Once, 
when  I  thought  they  were  surely  going  to  throw 
off  the  lines,  I  ran  out  and  called  to  them  that  the 
captain  was  dying  and  they  must  be  quiet.  At 
that  they  left  off,  and  I  had  time  to  be  happy  again. 
I'll  never  know  what  would  have  come  of  it  all  if 
Man'el  hadn't  done  what  he  did." 

The  little  army  of  clouds  along  the  western  sky 
line  had  been  signaling  wind  for  an  hour.  Now 
it  began  to  whisper  its  coming  for  itself,  making 
sudden  and  erratic  arrowheads  of  gray  on  the 
green  expanse  of  the  marshes.  All  the  vessels  had 
trooped  out  of  sight,  one  way  or  the  other.  A 
finger  of  vapor  in  the  west  reached  up  and  turned 
the  sun  red,  and  with  that  all  the  tide- channels 
became  myriad  and  labyrinthine  veins  of  blood- 
marble  patterning  the  pavement  of  the  spacious 
world.  We  might  have  been  in  a  cathedral,  and 
the  thin,  prolonged  note  of  the  Diadem,  whistling 

329 


STORM 

for  bait  away  across  the  hills,  the  scream  of  an 
organ-pipe  disturbed  by  some  attendant's  dusting- 
cloth. 

Allie  turned  to  me,  lifting  her  hands,  palms 
upward. 

"And  now,  my  Joe,  you  have  it  all." 

We  walked  back  slowly,  cutting  along  the  margin 
of  the  tide-grass  and  through  between  two  hum 
mocks  till  we  struck  into  Shank  Painter  road. 

"I  was  out  here  that  night,"  I  said. 

"I  know  it,"  she  replied.  "Every  child  in  Old 
Harbor  knows  just  where  you  were  every  moment 
of  that  night — you  have  no  idea,  Joe,  what  a  great 
hero  they  have  made  of  you." 

And  I  said: 

"I  don't  remember  any  time  in  my  life  when  I 
was  less  of  a  hero  than  the  night  of  the  seventh 
of  October." 


THE   END 


1  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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